


Wild Is the Wind

by dayisdone



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Companions Questline, F/M, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:51:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5706673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayisdone/pseuds/dayisdone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Aela’s chair clattered violently as she stood, her palms braced on the table and her eyes wild. “We’re going to finish them,” she hissed. “By the time we're done with them, the Silver Hand won't even be a stain in our history. We're going to wipe them out." </i> After Skjor's death, the Dragonborn and Aela set out to avenge him--but they might destroy the Companions in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunglow

            The key to Breezehome tumbled from Lysanor’s cold, bloodstained fingers for what seemed to be the fifteenth time in a row. She ground her teeth and fumbled for it in the dark, fingertips scraping along the stone doorstep. _Of course_. She could descend from Sovngarde and crawl all the way back to Whiterun, bloodied and battered, but she couldn’t open a godforsaken lock.

            She could have wept for relief when the door finally creaked open. It was dark inside, and the air was stale, dusty. The place must not have been touched for months. She hobbled forward, placing her torch in a sconce. Sure enough, everything was just as she had left it: bare, aside from the occasional chair or weapon lying around and the plethora of chests lined up against the back wall. Lysanor limped to the chair nearest to her, setting the lantern down beside it. She slipped the shield off of her back and painfully lowered herself into the seat.

            “Oh, Divines,” she mumbled to herself. A jolt of agony rushed through her tired legs, followed by painful pinpricks. Her foot twitched feebly. She really should have stopped somewhere on the way from the Throat of the World. She had just been so desperate to get home.

            When her legs stopped quivering she hauled herself up again. The back of the chair was smeared with blood. Ah, well. It was wood. She could clean it off later. Lysanor dragged herself over to the chests, cursing herself for placing them in the corner, and knelt by one. She untied satchel after satchel from her waist and haphazardly tossed them in. Finally, she emptied most of her coin purse into the chest and stood, hobbling back to the door. She only needed to go a little further before she was home. She gritted her teeth, grabbed her torch, and walked out of Breezehome.

            Skyrim’s grandest mead hall, thankfully, had no keys and no locks. All she had to do once she was at the entrance was push open the door and walk in. She collapsed heavily against the door, though, resting her forehead against the wall. The stairs to Jorrvaskr had proved a challenge--the wet warmth trickling down the back of her leg made it likely that she had left streaks of blood all the way up--but she was _here_. Finally. It was over.

            Lysanor shook herself out of it when she felt tears prick at the backs of her eyes. _Enough sentiment_. She pushed the door open with her shoulder and shuffled inside.

            The first thing that she registered was warmth, and flickering orange firelight, washing over her and surrounding her. The next was the scent of spiced mead. When she finally mustered up the energy to look around, she realized the hall was almost entirely empty, save for a dark figure in a chair on the corner. She squinted as the figure stood and approached her.

            “Lysanor?” he whispered disbelievingly. _Ah_. There was only one man who could sound so hopelessly Nordic with just one word.

            “Vilkas,” she said, laughing a little despite herself and forcing herself forward a few more steps. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

            He half-ran to her, stopping a few feet away and gaping. “You…we were sure that you…that you wouldn’t…” For once, he was at a loss for words.

            “Me too. Can you…?” Lysanor gestured weakly to the chairs in the center of the hall. He stared at her for a moment longer before seeming to snap out of his bewilderment.

            “Yes, yes, of course.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders and grasped her elbow, helping her hobble down the steps and into one of the chairs. Lysanor took a deep breath. She could relax now. “Are you alright to stay here for a minute?”

            “Give me a bottle of mead and I will be.”

            Vilkas managed a weak smile past his look of astonishment. He reached across the table and opened a bottle for her, placing it in her hands. “I’ll be back. Just…hold on.”

            Lysanor watched him go and then took a long drag of mead. Warmth rushed through her, from her belly to her worn, frostbitten fingers. She sighed and let her head loll back.

            She had only gotten a few moments to relax when she heard excited voices from the living quarters, followed by shouting and footsteps. She turned her head. Vilkas rushed back in first, with Athis and Ria quick on his heels.

            “She _is_ back! Oh my God, Lysa!” Ria was still in her nightclothes, her hair and eyes wild. She pushed past the men to stand in front of Lysanor, who painfully rose to her feet. “No, no, sit down. You look terrible. Oh, Gods, I can’t believe you’re alright!” Ria wrapped her arms around her shoulders in a quick and strange half-hug.

            “I wouldn’t say that,” Athis muttered. Lysanor looked up at him. “You’re bleeding all over the floor.”

            All four of them looked down. Lysanor had been right; her leg _was_ bleeding everywhere. Someone would have to clean the steps to Jorrvaskr in the morning. “I think there’s an arrowhead or something lodged in there. It bleeds when I walk.”

            “Go get some bandages before she bleeds out,” Vilkas ordered to nobody in particular. Ria gave Athis a dark look, still holding on to Lysanor’s shoulders. He rolled his eyes but swept off without a complaint. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

            “No. I’m fine.” She took one more deep breath, a twinge of pain rippling across the new burns on her ribs. A new voice chimed from the other end of the hall, just past the staircase.

            “Is it true, then? You’ve slain Alduin?”

            Lysanor scrambled to her feet at the sound of his voice, resting as much of her weight as she could on her right leg. Kodlak limped slightly--an injury, she had discovered, that he had borne in his youth--but his strides were quick and long as he approached. She bowed her head to him.

            “Yes, Harbinger.”

            Ria gasped softly, though she must have known the answer. Kodlak placed a hand on Lysanor’s shoulder.

            “Sit, lass.” She sat. “You have brought peace to Skyrim. This… _you_ will not soon be forgotten.”

            “Thank you,” she murmured, keeping her eyes down.

            Athis hurried back into the room before Kodlak could say anything more. He leaned over, roll of bandages in hand, and peered at her leg.

            “Maybe we ought to get her downstairs. Wash that up a bit.” A quiet murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

            “Come on, Lysa,” Ria said, grasping her arm. “We’re going to fix you right up. Don’t worry.”

            Lysanor wasn’t sure it was possible for her to be any less worried. She was home, surrounded by her Shield-Siblings, and she had no more prophecies to fulfill. What was there to worry about? Still, she didn’t have the energy to say all of that, so she allowed the others to help her up without a word. With all the hands on her helping her along, she was more being dragged than walking down the hall. A harrowing trip down the stairs later, Lysanor was neatly deposited inside the first bedroom where she, Njada and Ria used to sleep.

            “Someone should get some water to wash that with,” Vilkas said. Everyone turned back to Athis, who sighed and dropped the roll of bandages before leaving. Lysanor slowly looked at the faces surrounding her. There weren’t enough people.

            “Where is everyone?” she asked.

            “Farkas took Njada and Torvar on a job. Aela and Skjor…” Ria paused. “Hm. I’m not sure, actually.”

            “Must be on a job too,” Vilkas muttered. Lysanor didn’t miss the brief, disappointed glance he exchanged with Kodlak before turning back to her.

            “Why are you asking _us_ questions? We should be asking you! You’ve been away for so long, Lysa, you have to tell us about all the things you’ve done.” Ria sat on the bed that was beside her, leaning in with a bright, earnest smile.

            Lysanor swallowed. She couldn’t possibly imagine condensing the past few months of terror and pain and _tiredness_ into a few minutes’ explanation. But she supposed she had to try. So as Athis returned with water and Ria took on the job of wresting off her boot and setting to work replacing her bandages, she explained as much as she could; the Greybeards, Alduin, the Elder Scroll, Sovngarde. A lot of it they seemed to already know. Word of the Dragonborn’s struggles travelled fast, it seemed. Just as she was wrapping up her story (and Ria was wrapping up the last of her wounds) the sound of footsteps approaching echoed through the hallway.

            “What’s going on in there? Vilkas?” Lysanor felt a faint smile curve up her lips. What a relief to hear her sister’s voice again.

            “It’s Lysa. She’s…she’s back.”

            “ _What?_ ” That was Skjor. The small crowd around her was pushed aside and the two members of the Circle stood at the foot of her bed.

            “By the Gods,” Aela murmured, her eyes wide as they flickered over her. “Are…are you alright?”

            “I’m fine.”

            “So you…did you…?”

            “She just finished telling the story,” Ria almost-whispered, looking up at Skjor. “She killed Alduin.”

            “The World-Eater?” He slowly shook his head. “By the Gods. You really…”

            There was a brief silence as everyone took the situation in. Finally, Ria put down the bandages and patted her knee.

            “That’s about as much as I can do. You go and see Arcadia in the morning, okay? She’ll fix you up.”

            “I will,” Lysanor murmured. Vilkas cleared his throat.

            “You look exhausted. We’ll let you get some rest.” A murmur of agreement spread through the room as the others rather reluctantly stood. They trickled out of the room, whispering “goodnights” and “welcome backs.” Kodlak lingered in the doorway for a moment.

            “You have brought honor to yourself and to the Companions,” he said. “We are...immeasurably proud of you.”

            Lysanor bowed her head.

            “Goodnight, Lysanor. Ria.” He nodded to them both, slipping out of the room. Ria gave Lysanor a warm smile from her spot on her bed.

            “Are you comfortable? Do you need anything? I can get you some food, if you’re hungry.”

            “I’m okay. Thank you, Ria,” Lysanor said softly. “You should get some sleep.”

            “ _You_ get some sleep. You look half dead.” She looked her over, her eyes softening. “Let me know if you need something, okay?”

            “I will.” Ria gave her one more bright smile and leaned over, blowing the lantern out.

            She lay in the dark, drifting in and out of a watery sleep that left her with burning eyes and a throbbing headache. Despite every ache in her body, though, she was more relaxed than she had been in a long time.

 

            When it seemed she had been lying down for an appropriate number of hours, and also when her legs were willing to function again, Lysanor shifted and slid her feet off the side of the bed. She rested some of her weight on the balls of her feet. A twinge of pain shot through her calf, but other than that, it wasn’t too bad. Seemed to have stopped bleeding, too. She stood and hobbled over to one of the washbasins in the room. It took several minutes to wipe away the grime and blood from her face and hands. Lysanor looked down at herself and grimaced. She had been in the heavy wolf armor granted to her by the Circle for weeks now, maybe more, without changing. Where was her change of clothes? _Oh, right_. Back in Breezehome. She sighed.

            Lysanor crept back to the beds, where Ria was fast asleep. “Ria,” she whispered, gently shaking her shoulder. “Ria.”

            “Hm?” Ria mumbled sleepily. “Lysa? What’s the matter?”

            “Do you have a change of clothes?” Lysanor said, not sure why she was whispering but doing it anyway. “I want to go down to Arcadia’s.”

            “Oh, yeah, sure. Just look in my chest.” She waved at the wooden container sitting next to her bed. “You want me to come with you? Might be hard to get all the way down to the Plains District.”

            “No, that’s okay. You go back to sleep.” Lysanor rummaged through Ria’s rather disorganized chest, pulling out a crumpled grey frock. That should work. Tossing the garment onto Njada’s bed, she stood and tried to unfasten her breastplate, wincing.

            “Here, let me help.” Ria hurried to stand and pull the armor off of her. She helped her wrest off her gauntlets and greaves, then the cotton garments that had been under her armor. The dress was a little loose, but it wasn’t bloody and torn, and so it was good enough. Lysanor picked up her clothes and armor, tossing most of it on her bed and grabbing her coin purse from her bedside table.

            “Sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

            “Yes. I’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”

            “Alright.” Ria pulled out her own armor from her chest, blatantly ignoring Lysanor’s orders to go back to sleep. “Be careful with those stairs. It would be a shame if you tripped and snapped your neck after all that trouble you went to.”

            “Yes, a shame,” Lysanor chuckled, shuffling out the door. Though her leg wasn’t bothering her quite as much as the night before, going up the stairs was still a challenge without half of Jorrvaskr helping her. Outside, Whiterun was already illuminated with the dim morning light and she could only see a few people walking around. Good. The less people she had to explain the story to again, the better. Taking care not to get blood on the steps to Jorrvaskr again, she hobbled down into the Plains District.

            It was still too early in the morning, it seemed, for most people to be up and about. The market was empty save for a few guards, some of whom were still holding up their torches. Lysanor stopped at the entrance of Arcadia’s Cauldron and tried the doorknob. Locked. She squinted up at the sky. It couldn’t be that much longer until the shops opened up; Arcadia could afford to miss a little bit of sleep. She shifted her weight from foot to foot again and knocked firmly on the door. “Arcadia?”

            Silence. She knocked again.

            “Yes, I’m coming!” Arcadia called from inside. There was a series of metallic _clanks_ and _clicks_ as she unlocked the door, and then Arcadia’s haggard face appeared.

            “Good morning, Arcadia. Can I come in?”

            Arcadia’s tired eyes swept over her, taking in her bedraggled, bloodied state. She finally glanced up at her face. “Lysanor. You…you look awful. Come in.”

            The door widened enough for her to slip inside, then Arcadia shut and locked it again. Lysanor leaned heavily against the counter, careful not to knock over any potions or expensive ingredients. Her leg was bothering her again. “I’m sorry to bother you so early,” she said. “I just needed your help, and…well, I didn’t want to stand outside until you opened.” _Or climb back up the steps to Jorrvaskr_.

            “It’s alright.” Arcadia rubbed her hands across her face to wake herself up, then smoothed her hair back. “I take it you just got back, then? You look dreadful.” She squinted at her. “You look like you have Ataxia, actually.”

            “I don’t think so. But there’s plenty wrong with me,” Lysanor muttered.

            “Uh huh.” Arcadia looked her over, a faint grimace crossing her face. “Well, why don’t you sit down inside and I’ll see what I can do.” She paused to collect a few vials and jars as Lysanor shuffled over to the back room and sat on a stool. “You’re not dying, are you?”

            “I don’t think so.”

            “Alright. Just making sure.” Arcadia followed her into the room and heavily lowered herself into a seat opposite her. “Let’s see now…” She leaned forward, gently tilting her chin up and squinting at her and mumbling to herself.

            “So,” Arcadia said absently, pulling back the neck of her dress to look at the burns there. “Heard you rode on a dragon’s back all the way to Sovngarde. You’re going to have to take that off, by the way.”

            Lysanor stared at her. Arcadia leaned back, reaching for the shelf behind her and arching a brow.

            “Not _all_ the way there,” she finally murmured. She stood up, pulled the dress over her head with some difficulty and balled it in her lap.

            Arcadia chuckled.

            “Where did you even hear that?” Lysanor asked.

            “Whiterun’s been keeping tabs on you these past few months. You’ve become a bit of a legend.” She smiled, popping open a vial of a strong-smelling, orangey fluid that stung when she dabbed it on her torn skin.

            “I…see.”

            Arcadia continued smoothing the liquid over her skin in relative silence, thankfully not pushing for any more details about her trip to Sovngarde. It occurred to Lysanor that Arcadia was probably quiet not because she respected her desire for privacy--which was rare enough in Whiterun as it was--but because she already knew the gist of what had happened. Ah, well. At least that meant there would be fewer questions. Once the cuts and bruises had been dealt with, Arcadia had her lie back to look at the wound on her calf.

            “Oh. Looks like you’ve got something stuck in there.” She stood, grabbing some sort of tweezers from the shelf. “This might hurt a little. Nothing a warrior like you couldn’t handle, of course.”

            It _did_ hurt, but the Dragonborn probably wasn’t supposed to moan or scream when getting a wound cleaned out, so Lysanor did her best to keep her mouth shut. The wound, and others, were quickly wrapped up with new, nicer bandages; her dislocated shoulder was sort of fixed; and the painful burns on her torso were smeared with a cream that Arcadia insisted would leave her without any scars. Once the dress was back on, Lysanor followed Arcadia back into the front of the shop.

            “This is for that cut on your leg there. It’s pretty deep,” Arcadia explained, handing her a few small vials of reddish fluid. “Drink one a night after you eat supper. Should do wonders for that Ataxia, too. You should be feeling better soon enough.”

            “How much do I owe you?” Lysanor reached for her coin purse, but Arcadia stopped her.

            “Nothing this time.”

            Lysanor stared at her. “Arcadia…”

            “It’s fine. This is the least I can do.” Noticing her hesitation, Arcadia leaned over and touched her hand. “Really.”

            “Alright,” she said finally, tucking the bottles into her satchel. “Thank you.”

            “Thank _you_ ,” Arcadia replied with a small, wry smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading.


	2. Sinopia

            The walk up to Jorrvaskr was much less painful than it had been the night before, if a bit louder. The few that actually stopped her to welcome her back or thank her felt no need to ask her for the details. Apparently, the people of Whiterun weren’t quite as nosy as her Jorrvaskr family. The thought brought a smile to her face as she climbed up the stone steps again.

            “Lysanor.”

            She looked up. Njada looked as displeased with her as ever, arms folded across her chest and eyes narrowed. Lysanor had long since come to the conclusion that that was her default expression.

            “Njada. It’s good to see you.”

            “And you,” Njada said, her lip curling as if the lie was bitter on her tongue. “Didn’t think you were going to come back alive.”

            “I didn’t either,” Lysanor replied honestly.

            Njada grunted by way of response. Lysanor made her way past her to the doors of Jorrvaskr, offering one last, tight smile before slipping inside. The hall wasn’t nearly as quiet as it had been in the morning; voices assaulted her ears the second she stepped in.

            “…last night,” Vilkas was saying.

            “She _did_? I don’t believe it! Where is she?”

            A grin spread over her face. There he was.

            “Farkas!” she called. He whirled around, what little color there had been in his face draining away. She beamed and waved. Before she knew it, he was on the other end of the hall, scooping her up in his arms and crushing her to his metal-plated chest. She scrabbled in vain at his armored shoulders for purchase, finally settling for patting his back as best she could.

            “I thought we were never going to see you again,” he said into her shoulder.

            “I know,” she grunted. “Can you let me go?”

            “Right. Yes.” He pulled back, holding her at arm’s length and looking her over. “Are you okay? You look…” He trailed off, clearly not wanting to be the one to break the bad news to her.

            She grinned up at him. “I know, I know. I look terrible,” she agreed, waving her hand. “But I’m fine. How are _you_? When did you get back?”

            “Just a little while ago. Haven’t even been to my room.” He eyed her critically. “When did _you_ get back?”

            “Late last night. As soon as I got--oh!” She winced as the door swung open, clipping her in the shoulder.

            “Careful, Njada,” Farkas said sternly.

            “Shouldn’t stand in the doorway,” Njada grumbled, walking past without a second glance. They watched her go.

            “She’s right, you know,” Lysanor said. Farkas turned back to her. “You still need to go to your room, right?”

            “Aye.”

            “I’ll come with you. Come on.”

            Farkas frowned in concern, watching her painful movements. “Here, let me help,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulder. “Do you want me to carry you?”

            Lysanor laughed and shook her head. “Don’t you dare.”

            The living quarters were mostly abandoned, save for Njada unpacking her things in her room. Not much of a surprise, really. Before the dragon attack at Whiterun the year before, and the chain of events that had swept her up after it, Skjor had kept everyone on a tight training schedule. _We have to be prepared_ , he had insisted when the whelps (including her) groaned for a break. For what, he neglected to explain.

            The door to Farkas’s room swung open and he helped her hobble inside. He stopped by one of the heavy wooden chairs around his desk, his hand slipping from her shoulder, but she chose to collapse on his bed instead. He laughed.

            “You know, sister,” he said, slipping his shield off of his back and setting it down. “That is _my_ bed.”

            “I don’t see you using it,” Lysanor muttered into his pillow. After a moment of contemplation, she added, “ _Brother_.”

            Farkas grinned. He grabbed a bottle of mead from the shelf, twisted it open and collapsed into his chair.

            “Alright, tell me everything.”

            “Don’t you already _know_ everything?” Lysanor tried to shift onto her side to look at him, but the burnt skin on her ribs screamed in protest. She sat up, wheezing. “Seems like everyone in town knows what’s been going on these past few months.”

            “Well…yeah. Word’s been spreading like magefire.” He watched her, his eyes narrowing a little. “So it’s all true? The dragons, the Elder Scroll…everything?”

            Lysanor nodded slowly.

            “Gods.” He scratched at his short, coarse beard, considering this. “Vilkas was so sure you wouldn’t amount to anything.”

            “Vilkas doesn’t think any of us will amount to anything, though.”

            Farkas laughed. For someone who apparently loved his brother so dearly, he certainly enjoyed jokes at his expense. He put the mead down and set to work pulling off his gauntlets, lips curved up in an affectionate smile. They were both quiet for a moment.

            “You never did write me, you know,” Farkas said, suddenly accusatory. She glanced up at him, startled. “Even after all that promising.”

            “What promising?”

            Farkas’s voice rose a few pitches in a very poor imitation of Lysanor. “‘I’ll _definitely_ write you, Farkas! Swear to the Gods! You can count on me…’”

            “I never said that!” she insisted, laughing despite herself. “I said I would _try_. I didn’t have all that much time for writing letters when I was off hunting dragons, you know.” She paused. “And I don’t sound like that, either.”

            “Yes, you do.”

            She threw his pillow at him. He swatted it away without even looking up, shooting her a triumphant smirk. After a moment, he added gruffly, “I missed you.”

            “Not as much as I missed you.” He scoffed, but she was being sincere. She smiled at him warmly, watching him flex his long fingers once they were free of the armor.

            “Well, either way,” he declared, combing his hair out of his face with his fingers, “Glad you’re back. And that you still have all your limbs.”

            “I am too.” Lysanor looked him over. Even though he didn’t seem anywhere close to as battered as she had been when she came back to Whiterun, his long, dark hair was tangled, his scarred face was smeared with blood and grime, and his shoulders were hunched. He must have needed some time to recover. She rose to her feet, wavering a little. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

            “You can stay if you want,” he offered, but she waved it off. “Well, let me help you, then.”

            She held up both hands, palms out, as he approached her. “Do not pick me up,” she warned. Once, before she was a member of the Circle, Lysanor had broken her leg in a bear trap they found in a bandit hideout. Farkas’s solution was to throw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry her back to Jorrvaskr. She had never quite forgiven him for the dignity that had been stripped of her that day. She wasn’t sure if he would try to do the same when they only had to walk a few yards, not a few miles, but hey—warriors were unpredictable.

            He smiled. “I won’t.”

            By the time they got back to her quarters, even Njada had disappeared. Farkas tsked and murmured something about not wanting to leave her there alone.

            “I’ll be fine. I’m just going to lie down for a while.” She sat heavily in her bed, rubbing her eyes. “Wait for everything to stop hurting.”

            “If you’re sure.” He leaned over and patted her shoulder. “Sleep well.”

            “Right,” Lysanor laughed. “Thanks.”

            Farkas gave her a wolfish grin, bidding her a quiet farewell before ducking out of the room. She watched him leave and let her eyes drift closed. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if she should have been training. It certainly wasn’t very warrior-like to be lying around while the others worked. Just for a day, she reasoned to herself. All she needed was a day, and she’d be back to work.

            Of course, it wasn’t just a day. The wounds that Alduin had left her with took their time healing, and even when the worst had healed up and she could move around well enough, she was still incredibly, painfully exhausted. At most, she could muster up the energy to get across town to Breezehome and back to Jorrvaskr before collapsing back in bed. Images of her as Skyrim’s hero were still fresh in everyone’s mind, it seemed, because even Skjor, who had never let anyone go a few days without a training session, let her be. Vilkas stopped by her quarters one day, a first for him, to drop off a drink and some sort of sleeping potion. “Just get some sleep,” he’d said, “and you’ll be back on your feet before you know it.”

            Well, he was right, if by “before you know it” he had meant “in a few weeks.” For the legendary savior of the land, she was really quite useless. As she waited for her energy to return, she ended up recounting the stories of her adventures to whoever came by Jorrvaskr and occasionally helping Tilma with the chores. Though she grew even less fond of the story of Alduin and the Elder Scroll with every new telling, within a few days everyone else at Jorrvaskr had become intimately familiar with it and told more of the tale than she did. (Farkas, who had a penchant for storytelling, particularly enjoyed embellishing the story for Vignar and Brill when they dropped by.) The other warriors grew quite used to her loafing around Jorrvaskr all day long; when she washed up and began putting on her cleaned armor instead of plain clothes one morning, Ria looked absolutely astounded, as if she had never seen her in armor before.

            “Are you going on a job today, too?” she asked, watching her clasp her gauntlets into place.

            Lysanor shook her head. “No, but I think I’ll go train out in the yard. I’ve been sitting still for too long.”

            “Hm,” Ria murmured. Lysanor looked up.

            “Something wrong?”

            “You still seem kind of…ill,” she said, crossing her arms. “You’re all pale and you look exhausted. I don’t know if you should be fighting yet.”

            “You worry too much, Ria. I’m fine.” Lysanor stood and stretched her arms above her head. “I need to do something. I’ve been useless since I got back to Whiterun.”

            “You’ve been healing! That doesn’t make you useless,” Ria argued.

            “No, she has a point,” Njada piped up from her bed, where she was fastening her own armor. “She _has_ been useless.”

            “See? Njada understands.” Lysanor laughed at Ria’s expression. “I really am fine. I’ll feel better when I get something done.”

            Ria still seemed dissatisfied, but she didn’t protest when Lysanor stood and left the bedroom. Before she stepped into the hall upstairs, she took a moment to stretch her limbs more fully, make sure everything was in working order. Those dragonfire burns had definitely not healed without a scar like Arcadia had promised; they still ached in that terrible, dull way only burns could when she moved wrong. No matter. If she waited for those to heal, too, she would never be back on the battlefield. She walked up the stairs.

            The hall itself was rather quiet, as it usually was in the mornings. Most of the warriors had already left on jobs, or were outside in the yard training. The only ones left were Farkas, Aela and Skjor, standing by the windows and talking quietly. They turned to her as she approached.

            “Lysanor,” Skjor greeted. “Good to see you up and about.”

            She offered them a faint smile. “Does anyone want to spar with me?” she asked, gesturing to the axe at her hip. “I haven’t trained in a while.”

            “I will,” Farkas volunteered, already reaching for the huge sword strapped to his back.

            “No. Not you,” she said sternly. Skjor had always said that Farkas had “all the strength of Ysgramor,” and he really wasn’t kidding. Lysanor wasn’t mentally prepared for that sort of beating.

            Aela laughed. “Cruel. I like it,” she said, grinning at a disappointed-looking Farkas. “Come, sister. Let’s see if you’re still any good.” She grabbed her shield, strapping it to her forearm as she pushed open the door to the yard.

            As expected, there were already a few people training outside with the dummies. Farkas and Skjor trailed after the women, watching expectantly as they took their places and drew their weapons. Aela had chosen a rather unintimidating shortsword. Not a surprise, really. Vilkas had once remarked that Aela had never wielded anything larger than a dagger. She could, however, deal more damage with the damn thing than was fair.

            “Nice axe,” Aela commented, nodding at the light weapon in her hand. “What’s it made out of?”

            “Dragon bone.”

            Aela looked shocked for a moment. Then she laughed. “Impressive. Maybe you can get me some dragon bone arrows,” she said.

            “Find me some more dragon bone and I’ll see what I can do.”

            Aela grinned. “Ready?” she asked, tightening her grip on the blade.

            Lysanor stretched her arms out one last time. “Ready.”

            In her time away from home, Lysanor had grown a little too used to battling things that were much bigger than her. She almost didn’t remember how to fight someone her own size. Someone like Farkas would have charged long ago, leaving her to back up and try to avoid as many blows as possible. Aela, instead, eyed her warily from behind her shield, circling around her, watching her movements. She felt like prey.

            Aela was the first to strike. She crept forward, shield still up, knife held aloft, slow enough that Lysanor was certain she was waiting to defend first. Then she lunged. There was no time to think--Lysanor instinctively flung her shield up, the _screech_ of metal against metal filling the air. Aela’s next strike sliced the air inches from the tip of her nose. She staggered back, gasping.

            “Not the face!” she grunted, keeping her shield high and tightening her grip on her axe. Aela cackled.

            Lysanor sidestepped the next few quick lunges, looking for an opening. She found one as Aela aimed another swipe at her face, probably just to spite her (Aela was like that), and lost her footing for a moment. There was her chance. Before Aela could recover from the stumble, she flung her shield arm out with as much strength as she could muster, the metal smashing into her opponent’s armored chest with a heavy _thunk_. Aela fell to her knees and wheezed. Past the roar of blood thundering in her ears, Lysanor faintly registered whooping coming from their spectators.

            Lysanor waited for Aela to stagger back to her feet before she swung. They were a flurry of metal, of blades and limbs and shields, each swipe of a weapon quickly deflected. Lysanor was beginning to worry they were too evenly matched for the battle to really go anywhere. Instead of throwing up her shield to block Aela’s next advance, Lysanor took the painful slice to her uncovered upper arm and responded with a sharp swing of her own. The impact of the much heavier blow sent Aela staggering back a few steps. The huntress seemed to be seized by a sudden fury, springing up with almost inhuman speed and swiping viciously. Lysanor fell back, overwhelmed, and bashed her in the face with her shield.

            They both backed up, breathing hard and eyeing each other over their shields. Ignoring the shouts from the sidelines, (“She can’t take much more! Go on, finish her!”) Lysanor readied her shield as Aela advanced. She deflected the first few strikes, and when it seemed like she was about to back off, lowered her shield. Instead of backing up, Aela rushed forward, hurling her shield into Lysanor’s chest with the force of her entire body behind it. Lysanor flew into the cold stone wall at the back of the yard and pain thundered through her body. She fell to her knees, dropping her weapon and putting her hands up.

            “Enough,” she wheezed. “Enough.”

            “Not bad, sister! You almost got me there.” Aela set down her shield and extended her hand. Lysanor took a moment to catch her breath, then took her hand, dragging herself back to her feet. “Never underestimate someone with a small weapon. You have to be confident to wield one of these,” she added, spinning the knife between her fingers.

            “Or weak,” Lysanor muttered, grinning through the tears.

            “Losers shouldn’t criticize, Lysa.”

            “Good job, both of you.” The men crossed the yard to them, Skjor nodding approvingly. “That was good shield work. Njada would be proud. You two have earned a drink.” _Njada? Proud? Not a chance._ She resisted the urge to speak up, but hung back and gave Farkas a meaningful look as they walked back to the porch. He understood the joke before she had a chance to say it and laughed softly.

            “That looked like fun,” he remarked. “You should have let me spar with you.”

            “I don’t think so. I would be crying right now if I had.” Lysanor lowered herself to a bench, watching Aela and Skjor head back inside. Aela gave her a wink and a smile before she disappeared into the hall.

            “From the looks of it, _I_ would be the one crying. You’ve really improved.”

            She beamed, puffing her chest out a little despite herself. She knew he was just trying to make her smile—that was just how Farkas was—but coming from the man who had taught her almost everything she knew about battle, it was still high praise. “Thank you.” She gestured for a bottle of mead sitting next to him, which he passed over. After taking a sip, she added, “I got a lot of practice. When I was gone, I mean.”

            “Of course you did. Slaying dragons and all that.” He grinned fondly when she looked up at him. “I keep telling Skjor that the whelps won’t learn until we send them on jobs, but he doesn’t listen. Says they need to train more.”

            “Is that why Torvar always looks so angry with you?”

            “That’s it.”

            Lysanor sighed, stretched her arms behind her head. “Well, if Skjor’s got his mind set on it, there must be a reason. Better just let it be.”

            “Not like I have a choice.”

            They smiled at one another, both quiet for a moment. Now that she thought about it, Skjor _had_ been acting a little strange lately. When she was new to the Companions, he was always quick to give advice, quick to criticize, considerably more talkative than the rest of the Circle—except, maybe, for opinionated Aela. The past few weeks he had seemed so...distracted. He had only spoken to her a few times since she had gotten back, and never extensively. Strange.

            She stood, stretching out and scratching at the oozing wound on her arm. Skjor wasn’t about to give up any secrets—no point in worrying about it. “I’m going to shoot some arrows,” she said. Farkas looked up at her. “Want to check my stance for me?”

            “Sure.” She waited for him to set his mead back down and stand, then they walked back to the yard together.

            As it turned out, the training wasn’t quite as bad as she remembered. Farkas, as expected, did not hesitate to criticize her stance (which, admittedly, wasn’t very good) and kick her feet a few times to get her to straighten it out, but that was more or less the worst of it. The rest of the daylight trickled past as she practiced with the dummies against the back wall, or the occasional person that stepped out into the yard. Her limbs ached and she could already feel bruises forming from where Aela had thrown her into the wall, but it certainly could have been worse.

            She finally decided it was time to head back inside when Torvar dealt a nasty blow to her ribs and her burnt side started to feel like it was about to melt off. It was starting to get dark, anyway, and the others had long since left. She wiped the sweat out of her eyes, sheathed her weapon, and dragged herself back into the hall.

            For once, the place seemed comfortably full. Farkas had been right—Skjor really didn’t want many of them leaving Jorrvaskr. Even Kodlak had ventured up from his quarters, where he spent most of his time nowadays, to sup with the others. Lysanor stretched out her aching limbs and dropped into an empty seat next to Aela.

            “Have fun out there?” Aela asked, looking over her tired, dirty form.

            “It was nice to do something again.”

            “I’ll bet. You seemed pretty bored these past few weeks.” Lysanor made a noise of agreement around her mouthful of mead. Aela smiled. “Speaking of doing things,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “since you’re feeling better, I figured you might want to get some work done. I’ve left some letters from clients on your desk for you to sort through.”

            “Aela,” she groaned. “Aren’t there any jobs I can go on instead?”

            “Nothing that isn’t better suited to one of the whelps,” Aela shrugged.

            Lysanor sighed. “Alright. I’ll get it done,” she mumbled. The honor of being a member of the Circle was worth the pain of going through stacks of jobs, she supposed. Aela nodded, a funny sort of look on her face. They ate in relative silence, and as the others began to wander out of the hall, Aela spoke up again.

            “Lysa,” she said quietly. Her eyes were focused on the other end of the room. Lysanor followed her gaze, frowning. When Kodlak’s form disappeared down the stairs into the living quarters, Aela turned to look at her.

            “Now that I think about it,” she murmured, “there might be a job for you. If you’re still interested.”

            “Aye?”

            Aela shifted a bit closer to her, her voice still low. “Do you remember the Silver Hand?”

            “Of course.” The Companions and the Silver Hand had been at war for decades, though the details of the feud were lost to Lysanor. All she knew was that the Silver Hand had had a personal vendetta against the Circle for a long time and, over the years, had stolen both valuables and lives from the Companions. Lysanor’s own Trial had been to retrieve a stolen fragment of Wuuthrad from a Silver Hand lair. The trip, her first encounter with a real, live werewolf, was nothing if not memorable. It would be difficult to forget the first, and only, time she had seen Farkas turn, or the way he ripped the werewolf hunters apart. “Why?”

            “Well, rumor has it they’ve taken over that old fort at Gallows Rock, over in Eastmarch. Skjor and I were planning on going in there and…cleaning the place out.” She raised a brow at her. “Want to come along?”

            Lysanor chewed on her lip. “Hm,” she murmured. “Have you gone over this with Kodlak?”

            “Do I need to?” Aela said defensively, her voice a little too loud. The twins paused in their conversation to look over at her. She lowered her voice again. “You worry about Kodlak too much, Lysa. You haven’t been hunting in so long.” Her eyes flickered over her face, a slight frown furrowing her brows. She sighed. “What the old man doesn’t know won’t hurt him, you know.”

            “Fine,” Lysanor said finally, her gaze dropping. “I’ll come.”

            “Excellent.” Aela leaned back, a triumphant smile curving up her lips. “Those slimy little bastards are always such easy prey.”

            “When are do we leave?”

            “When Skjor tells us to,” she shrugged. “I’ll let you know. Stay prepared.”

            “Alright.” Lysanor slowly stood, her knees cracking painfully. “I’ll get to those letters.”

            Aela smiled. “Good night.”

            She bade Aela goodnight, walking around the table to get to the stairs. On her way, she passed by the twins, who were engaged in a heated, quiet argument. They both fell silent when she neared.

            “Lysanor,” Vilkas said, nodding to her. “Heard you gave Aela quite a beating today.”

            “I’m the one that got a beating,” Lysanor confessed. Vilkas chuckled. He must have been in a good mood—it was strange for him to smile at her.

            “Well, it’s always good to get some practice.”

            “Lysa, I left some letters from clients on your desk,” Farkas added. “Go through them when you get the time.”

            Lysanor groaned in her head. “I will.” She hurriedly bade them farewell and backed out of the room before anyone could try and give her more notes to work through. Though there were several others milling around downstairs, her own room was quiet and dark. Njada and Ria, it seemed, wouldn’t be back for a while. At least the quiet would help her work. She felt around the darkness for the lantern, lit it with a few sparks from the tips of her fingers, and carefully set it down. She sighed quietly when she caught sight of her desk. The stack of papers next to her satchel was going to take all night to go through. She would need to read through the requests, sort them by area and type, then drop them off to the other members of the Circle—because, as the newest member, she didn’t really dole out the jobs herself. She felt a bit like she had when she was the newest recruit, scrambling around Whiterun and running errands for the Circle to gain their approval. Then, she had been the whelp of the Companions. Now she was the whelp of the Circle.

            No matter. The monotony was welcome after the chaos of the past few months. The fate of the world wasn’t resting on her shoulders this time. She unfastened her armor and lifted it off of her, throwing it onto her bed, and kicked off her boots. She drew the lantern closer to her, cracked her knuckles and picked up the first folded note.

            By the time the written requests were sorted into four neat little piles, one for each other member of the Circle, she had long since lost track of time. Ria and Njada were still missing, so it couldn’t have been too late, but the men were fast asleep in the adjacent room. Lysanor stood and stretched, slowly. Might as well drop the things off now and get them off her hands. Careful not to make too much noise, she crept out of the room and into the hall.

            The next door to the left led to Skjor and Aela’s bedrooms. She raised a hand to knock at Skjor’s door, but paused with her fist still hanging in the air. She so hated bothering Skjor in his quarters, especially at night, when there was a good chance that Aela was in there with him. Perhaps it would be better to come back in the morning.

            But Skjor wasn’t even at Jorrvaskr half of the time. Who knew when she would be able to catch him next? She sighed, gritted her teeth and knocked on the door. There was a brief silence, then he called, “Come in.”

            She gently turned the doorknob with her free hand and poked her head inside. He was alone, sitting at his desk before a long piece of parchment with quill in hand. She crept in.

            “Good evening, Lysanor.” He set the quill in the inkwell, leaning back in his chair. “What do you need?”

            “I have these letters for you,” she murmured, setting them down on his desk.

            “Oh, you went through them?” He picked them up, absently flipping through the pieces of paper. “Kodlak will be delighted.” He gave her a small, wry smile. “Anything good?”

            “Not really. An escaped prisoner in Hjaalmarch, some stolen family heirlooms. That sort of thing.”

            “I suppose we can have a few of the whelps handle them, then.” He set them back down on the table. “Thank you."

            “Of course.” She turned back to the door, reaching out and placing her hand on the knob. She paused. He was already hunched over his parchment again, the scratch of the quill loud in the otherwise silent room. Her fingers clenched of their own accord, nails biting into her palm. “Skjor?”

            He glanced up. “Yes?”

            “I…I was wondering…Do you know if…” Lysanor swallowed, watching his face carefully. It was silly for the Dragonborn to be nervous around a man who had never even been unkind to her, but she would be lying if she said he didn’t frighten her a little bit. His tired, weathered face and clever eyes, one of which was milky and scarred from a wound obtained decades ago, spoke of years of experience and knowledge. Even among a group of legendary warriors, he stuck out as especially intimidating. She lowered her eyes, unable to hold his gaze. “Never mind.”

            He raised one heavy grey brow at her. “What’s on your mind, sister?”

            “Nothing important,” she lied. “You must be busy. I’ll just ask Aela later.”

            Skjor watched her for a moment, clearly trying to glean whether or not he should press the issue. Finally, he nodded. “Alright,” he said simply. “Good night.”

            “Good night,” she echoed, slipping out of the room before he could change his mind. She gently pulled the door shut behind her and took a deep breath. She should have asked him while she had the chance. If anyone knew, it was Skjor. She rubbed tiredly at her eyes. _Too late now_. She adjusted the few letters still clamped in her hand—the majority of them had gone to Skjor—and made her way to Aela’s (empty) room, then the twins’s. When all the mail had been delivered she returned to her still-silent bedroom. The darkness was heavy, oppressive. Gods, how she wished for just one good night’s sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading.


	3. Timberwolf

            Her decision to drop off Skjor’s jobs that night, it seemed, was a good one, because he seemed to have disappeared by morning. Predictably, Aela was gone too. As she waited to hear from one of them, Lysanor tried to keep herself busy, training in the yard and skimming through the old books that were scattered around Jorrvaskr. There was only so much one could train, though, and reading wasn’t her forte. As the days trickled past like a dried-up stream in one of Skyrim’s warm months, Lysanor began to wonder if they had left without her.

            She was out in the yard, trying to adjust the grip of her shield, when Aela suddenly reappeared. She looked flustered and out of breath, but she was grinning.

            “Are you ready? Let’s go!”

            Lysanor straightened up, bewildered. “Now?” She looked around. The only others she could see were Vilkas and Ria at the other end of the yard, by the archery target. “Where have you been? Where’s Skjor?”

            “Skjor already left to scout the place. Come on, we need to catch up to him.”

            “Wasn’t he going to come with us?”

            “So many questions,” Aela tsked. “Our job isn’t to interrogate him, it’s to follow him. Now, are you coming, or not?”

            “Alright, alright. Calm down.” Lysanor sheathed her weapon. “Just give me a minute to get my things.”

            “Be quick. I’ll meet you by the stairs outside.” She was gone before Lysanor could protest. It was just as well, anyway. There was no arguing with Aela.

            She sped off to the Jorrvaskr living quarters, shield still in hand. There probably wasn’t enough time to run by Breezehome and pick up extra potions. Food wasn’t a concern, not with the huntress herself by her side. She wouldn’t need all that much time to get ready after all. In her bedroom, she grabbed her satchel and coin purse, tying them to her waist, and rummaged around her chest. She slipped her heavy Skyforge sword, her first real weapon, into the other sheath at her waist, strapped her bow and shield to her back. As a finishing touch, she adjusted her armor and swept her ragged fur travel cloak over her shoulders.

            Ria bumped into her, quite literally, as she was heading back up the stairs.

            “Sorry, Lysa,” she said tiredly, smoothing her hair out of her face.

            “It’s fine.” She paused for a moment, looking her over. Ria was slumped over, breathing hard, and her hair and face were damp with sweat. “Are you alright?”

            “Fine.” She leaned against the side of the stairs, apparently having lost the will to stand straight. “Vilkas is teaching me how to use a greatsword.”

            “A greatsword?” During her training, Lysanor had handled the things a few times herself. While they were certainly powerful weapons, she never did get used to the immense weight and ended up falling over more often than dealing any damage with them. Ria was built similarly to her—lean, average height, not particularly muscled. “Are you strong enough for that?”

            “Of course I’m strong enough. Why does everyone keep saying that?” Ria grumbled. “Farkas said I should use something lighter, too.” She sighed, rubbing her eyes. Her maroon war paint, thinned with sweat, smeared across her face in heavy streaks. “It’s not the sword that’s the problem.” She lowered her voice and growled, “It’s _Vilkas_.”

            “Mm.” She respected Vilkas as much as any other of her Shield-Siblings, but even she had to admit he could be an utter pain. Training with him was even more of a nightmare than it was with his brother. “Why don’t you ask someone else? Vilkas isn’t the only one around here that uses one of those swords.”

            “Yes, but he’s the best at it,” Ria sighed. “Farkas is too busy trying to whip Torvar into shape, and Skjor is barely ever around anymore.”

            She jerked as if awakening from sleep when she heard Skjor's name. "Aela is going to kill me. I have to go.”

            “Bye,” Ria groaned, not bothering to ask. When there was a chance that Aela would be angry, there was no time for questions. Lysanor rushed up the stairs and out the door, where an irritated-looking Aela was waiting for her.

            “What took you so long? Skjor’s probably already at Gallows Rock by now,” she complained.

            “Sorry. Just getting my things together.” Lysanor flexed out her shoulders under her cloak. “Come on, let’s go.”

            They received a number of warm smiles and “good journeys” as they walked through the market, into the gates of the city. Though Lysanor knew the Companions were the butt of quite a few jokes amongst the townspeople—she had heard far too many “Do you fetch the mead?” jokes when she was the new blood—they were still respected, if only out of fear. The other members of the Circle were also quite well-liked; Skjor and Kodlak were clearly the heroes of the town, and many of the older townspeople like Fralia Gray-mane had fond stories of Vilkas and Farkas as little boys. Over the years, Lysanor herself had earned a bit of respect, too.

            As they waited for the guards to push open the gates, Aela said conversationally “Excited to be getting out of town again?”

            “Not really,” Lysanor muttered. The sharp winter wind buffeted her hair as the doors to the city creaked open. The guard nodded to them and she offered a faint smile in response. “I’ve spent more than enough time away from home.”

            “You’ll have fun, just you wait. Nothing gets the blood racing like the feel of the hunt.”

            As they walked out of town past the stables, the horses recoiled and whinnied fearfully. Aela took her arm, hastily pulling her down the path and muttering for her to hurry up. Lysanor vaguely recalled asking Farkas about the horses on one of her first jobs. They were headed to the Rift, quite a ways from Whiterun, but the Companions owned no horses and Farkas wasn’t willing to rent one from the stables. She remembered thinking it was strange that a famed group of warriors that traveled all over the province didn’t own a single horse. When she had asked him, all he had said was, “Horses don’t like us.” Now she knew why.           

            So they walked (or rather, ran) for much of the way. It would be a day or two to Gallows Rock, Aela had told her, less if they kept moving through the night. That was the benefit of traveling with other Circle members, Lysanor realized as the sun crept lower in the sky. No need to stop regularly, to set up camp and pretend to sleep through the night. She had only just been initiated into the Circle herself when the dragon attacked Whiterun and she was whisked off; she was still learning.

            As it began to grow dark, Aela slowed her pace and teased, “Getting tired yet?”

            “Not a chance,” Lysanor scoffed. If there was one thing she had grown excellent at, it was travelling.

            “Well, I am. Let’s stop and eat.” Without waiting for an answer, Aela veered off of the path, pushing past the sparse grass and heading for a secluded bundle of trees. She kept her knife out as they approached, looking around warily. When she came to the conclusion that there wasn’t anything unpleasant lurking in the shadows, she sheathed her knife and dropped her satchel to the ground. She stretched slowly, arching her back like a cat. “Come on. Let’s hunt.” Instead of readying her bow, though, she slipped it off her shoulders and let it drop beside the satchel, followed by her quiver. _Oh. Oh no_. Lysanor swallowed.

            “Maybe we should hunt…the traditional way,” she offered. Aela looked up at her, her eyebrows rising.

            “The traditional way?” she echoed.

            “Without turning.”

            Aela was silent for a long moment, her eyes narrowing. “Why? It’s much more difficult that way, you know.”

            “I know, I know,” Lysanor said hurriedly, holding her hands out. “It’s just…we’re right next to the main road. The last time I turned so close to the pathway I was nearly seen.”

            Aela stared at her.

            “Better safe than sorry.”

            The silence stretched on. Lysanor was almost about to back off when Aela slowly nodded. “You’re right. Skjor has been telling me to be a little more discreet, anyway.” She bent over, picked her bow up again. “Come on. I think I heard some deer over that way.” Lysanor breathed a quiet sigh of relief, dropping her own bags and creeping along after her.

            Though Lysanor was not much of a huntress, it was barely a few minutes until they had taken down a decently sized doe. Aela’s hunting skills were unmatched, after all. They dragged the beast back to their makeshift camp and as Aela set to work skinning it, Lysanor gathered wood for a small fire. She knew Aela didn’t mind raw meat--perhaps even preferred it--but she had never gotten used to the taste of blood, herself.

            The fire finally sprung to life with a muttered spell and a few embers that leapt from the tips from Lysanor’s fingers. Rich warmth washed over her, thawing out her cold limbs and face. She slipped off her gloves to warm her hands by the fire. Eventually Aela handed her a few hastily carved chunks of meat, which she skewered and held above the crackling flames. They fell into a companionable silence as the food cooked.

            “Aela,” she asked quietly, watching the edges of the meat brown as wisps of fire curled over it.

            “Hm?”

            “Is…is there…” She closed her eyes, clenched her fists. She couldn’t back down this time. “Is there a cure for lycanthropy?”

            “A _cure?_ ” Aela scoffed. “What nonsense. You’re starting to sound like the old man.”

            “Aela,” she said, looking up at her with a faint frown. To her credit, Aela looked chagrined.

            “I…I shouldn’t say that,” she muttered. “I love Kodlak. I…respect and follow him.”

            Lysanor turned back to the fire, brows furrowed.

            “But he’s wrong about this,” Aela continued, her voice stronger. “I know he thinks the beast blood is a curse. He’s _wrong_. This is a gift that we’ve been granted. We’ve been turned into the greatest hunters, the greatest warriors of the land! We can’t just throw that away for some--some mead-swilling afterlife in Sovngarde.” She shook her head, her eyes wild, fiery. “Where is this even coming from, huh? You didn’t have a problem with our gift before you left.”

            “I was away for a long time, Aela. I had a lot of time to think.” The way the world looked when she gave in to the blood, a mass of blackened colors and shapes and sounds, felt burned into her eyelids. When she was turned, she couldn’t seem to hold on to her thoughts for more than a moment before they flitted away like torchbugs. It was all wrong. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I was just asking.”

            Aela fell silent, but her body was still drawn as taut as the string of a bow. She wordlessly accepted the overcooked chunk of meat that Lysanor passed to her.

            “Is Kodlak looking for a cure?”

            Aela glanced back up at her, eyes still hard. “Probably,” she said after a moment. “He’s said he wants one. I don’t know if he’s found anything yet.”

            Lysanor didn’t ask anything more. She probably wouldn’t have gotten any more answers either way. They stared at the fire, each lost in her own thoughts. Now that she thought about it, she had never really discussed the beast blood with Kodlak. Skjor and Aela had been the ones to turn her, and she had been on hunting trips with them; Vilkas occasionally offered quiet advice about how to deal with the nastier aspects of their boon; and after her first turning she had stumbled first to Farkas, bewildered and nauseous. Kodlak had never really spoken to her about it. All she could remember was the disappointment in his eyes when Skjor and Aela told him that she, too, had turned. She chewed her meat slowly, thoughtfully.

            Finally, Aela stood, brushing dirt off of her armor. “We should get going,” she said evenly. “If we want to catch up with Skjor.” Her voice was still guarded, purposefully calm, but at least she didn’t look angry anymore.

            “Let’s go, then.”

            They gathered their things, strapping on their bags and readying their weapons. Lysanor carefully lit a torch on the fire before she kicked dirt over the flames. When nothing was left but smoke and embers, they turned and headed back to the cobblestone road.

            “How much longer is it to Gallows Rock?”

            “Why? Are you getting nervous?” Aela said humorlessly. She glanced at her out of the corner of her eye.

            “Just wondering.”

            Aela was quiet for a moment, her eyes flickering over their surroundings. “Shouldn’t be much longer. We’re just following the river east and crossing at the bend.” She used her torch to point ahead of them. “See that smoke there? It’s a giant camp. We’ll cross the river around there.”

            They trudged through the grassy plains at the border of Eastmarch in relative silence, beating off the occasional night creature that got in their way. The rush of the battle seemed to improve Aela’s mood, because by the time they reached the riverbank, she was just about back to normal. Lysanor, on the other hand, was grumpy that they couldn’t find a bridge--in the Skyrim cold, getting wet was a dreadful mistake, even for a Nord--but she decided she’d irritated Aela enough for the night. So they held their cloaks and torches aloft, as far above the water as possible, and waded through the shallowest part of the river. From there, Aela said, it was only a day’s trek to the fort. Sure enough, as the sun began to creep over the horizon in the early hours of the next morning, the crumbling stone walls of Gallows Rock came into view.

            “Put that away,” Aela whispered, gesturing for her to lower her torch. She put it out in the dirt and tucked it into her belt. They crept over the rocky, snow-dotted ground, weapons readied. The entire outside of the fort, however, was suspiciously silent; there were lit fires still crackling, leather still laid out over tanning racks, but not a sign of life anywhere. As they moved in the watery-blue, early morning light, Lysanor stumbled over something and cursed quietly. She glanced down.

            “Oh.” She straightened up, toeing the decapitated figure in the gut. “Aela. Look.”

            Aela crept over to her, stepping delicately over an overturned chair. “Huh,” she muttered, staring down at the man. “I guess Skjor already got to them.”

            “Where did he say he was going to meet us? Inside?”

            “He didn’t say. Must be around here somewhere.” The sun continued to rise into the sky, casting dim rays of light over the fort. As the heavy darkness was lifted, Lysanor realized the dead man by their feet wasn’t the only one--they were surrounded by them. Nearby lay a woman with her throat slashed open, her neck and chest crusted with drying blood; another was slumped over a table with a gaping wound in his abdomen. Lysanor looked up at the decrepit tower, squinting and shielding her eyes from the pale slivers of sunlight that crept through the cracks in the stone. No sentinels.

            “Looks like we’re alone,” she muttered. She and Aela looked at one another for a moment, silent.

            “Skjor must be inside,” Aela said finally. “Come on, let’s go before he finishes them all off without us.” She turned away the dead man and headed back to the wooden ramp, delicately leaping over rubble and more bodies. Lysanor followed, kicking the bodies aside. No point in being sneaky now. By the time she got down, Aela was already waiting for her by the heavy stone entrance to the garrison. “Can you be any slower?” Aela mumbled, shaking her head. Lysanor ignored her and tightened her grasp on her axe, pushing the door open with her shoulder and creeping inside.

            The stone hallway was silent, deserted, and very dark. Lysanor’s newly-lit torch quickly illuminated the room. Barely a few feet from the entrance, the hallway was blocked off with a heavy spear gate. Aela scoffed quietly, walking closer to it.

            “Look at this. Cowards,” she sneered. “They must have locked down the rest of the fort when Skjor charged in.”

            “Is there any other way in?” Lysanor approached the gate, pulling lightly at the rusty iron spears. They didn’t budge, of course.

            “Doesn’t look like it.” They were both silent for a moment, feeling around the walls surrounding the gate. Lysanor had been sent to abandoned forts several times on jobs before; bandits and criminals flocked to them like moths to a flame. These gates always had a pull chain or a lever somewhere close by. Vilkas’s favorite saying was “Every door has a key,” after all. She finally found it--on the other side of the gate. She forced her arm between the spears, grunting as she reached for the pull chain. Her pauldron caught on the metal, screeching loudly.

            “Fuck,” she grumbled, pulled her arm back. Aela laughed quietly.

            “Why don’t you yell a little louder, hm? Let them all know we’re here?”

            Lysanor shushed her, unsheathing her sword. “Here. See if you can reach that pull chain.” Aela took the sword, clearly uncomfortable with the heavy weapon, but slid it through the spears anyway. Her much lighter armor had no trouble slipping between the metal bars. She struggled for a moment, grunting and reaching out, then hooked the tip of the sword in the pull chain and thrust downwards. The spears retracted, groaning and creaking. Lysanor took her sword back with a pleased smile.

            “Couldn’t outsmart our Dragonborn, huh?” Aela chuckled.

            “Of course not.” They exchanged a smirk. “Come on. Let’s go.”

            The pathway past the gates was a bit better lit, with the occasional torch or lantern attached to the wall. It was filthy, though that was expected, and smelled far worse than Lysanor had come to accept of bandit hives. Aela seemed to be thinking something similar as they moved along the hall, her lip curling contemptuously at a bloodied silver weapon that had been carelessly abandoned on the ground. “Scum,” she muttered under her breath.

            A set of stairs led into a large room surrounded by huge stone pillars. Aela crouched behind a pillar and held out her arm, gesturing for her to stay down. Lysanor leaned past her to look into the room. It was immense, dimly lit, and mostly stone, though she could see the occasional wooden door embedded in the wall. A campfire crackled in the middle of the room. A few men sat around the fire, talking quietly. Aela grinned.

            “Look,” she whispered. “Live ones.” She drew an arrow from her quiver, silently nocked it, and let it fly.

            The arrow whizzed through the air, hurtling into one man’s shoulder. His yelp of pain echoed through the stone room. Lysanor glared at Aela, who cackled. “I was aiming for his neck!” she exclaimed, leaping up and reaching for another arrow. Lysanor rolled her eyes.

            “By Ysmir, Aela,” she grumbled and drew her axe, charging into the room. It wasn’t much of an entrance, to be honest--every man inside had already been alerted to their presence. Still, she could see real fear in their eyes, quickly followed by rage as they recognized her armor.

            The first man hurtled forward, the distinctive silver sword glinting in the firelight. Lysanor hurled him back with her shield arm. She lashed out with her axe at a second, tearing a gash in his worn leather armor, and smashed the first one with her shield again. This time, the _crack_ of snapping bone rang out. _One down_. The second man quickly fell, her axe embedded in the side of his skull, and Lysanor whirled around to face the first again. He was already lying on the ground with a telling stillness. A third warrior was dead in his chair by the fire, blood gurgling past the arrow lodged in his throat. She turned to Aela, who was lowering her bow.

            “You’re just like the men. Too slow,” she grinned.

            “Not much of a fight,” Lysanor muttered. She sheathed her weapon, strolling to the other end of the room. Wooden shelves lined the stone walls by the campfire. She ran her fingers along them, inspecting the bottles and books that the bandits had lined up.

            “Of course not,” Aela scoffed. “They’re the Silver Hand. What did you expect?” She walked over to the bodies on the ground, toeing one of their silver weapons. “Look at this. Think they’re going to cleanse Skyrim with these things.”

            “Mm.” Lysanor turned back to the shelves, squinting at the label on one of the bottles. Looked like a healing potion. She popped open the cork and took an experimental sip. Warmth rushed through her and she sighed at the feeling of all of her aches and pains disappearing for just a moment. Healing potion or not, everything felt a little better, so it was good enough. She twisted the bottle shut and tucked it into her satchel.

            “Come on, Lysa, what are you doing?”

            “Just looking. Never know what you might find in these places.” She grabbed a coin purse that was sitting on the shelf, holding it up as she crossed to the other end of the room. “See?”

            Aela rolled her eyes. “What, our jobs don’t pay you enough?” she muttered, trailing after her. “We need to catch up to Skjor, Lysa, come on.”

            “Just a second.” The stench that had been thick in the air from the moment they stepped in grew stronger as she approached a pair of doors at the other end of the room. “Gods, what _is_ that?” she mumbled, holding her free arm to her nose. She pulled on one door, but it was clearly barred from the other side. Turning to the other, she wrenched it open and peered inside.

            “Ugh,” she hissed, taking a few steps back and covering her nose.

            “There’s a dead one, isn’t there?” Aela asked, strolling over to her. She grimaced as she took in the limp form nailed to the wall. “Thought so. Nobody we know, by the smell…could have been anyone.”

            “Are those…” Lysanor gestured to the table beside the mangled werewolf. A roll of leather lay there with a number of gruesome-looking metal tools, most of them covered in blood. Aela winced.

            “Let’s go,” she muttered, taking her arm. This time, Lysanor didn’t protest.

            A third door at the end of the room behind the campfire proved to be more promising than the other two. They crept down the long corridor, weapons out. As they followed the hallway down a wide set of stairs, Lysanor turned to Aela.

            “Why were those three still alive?” she whispered.

            “What?”

            “Why were they alive?” Lysanor repeated. “If Skjor’s already been past them?”

            Aela stopped for a second, her eyes wide in the dark corridor. They stared at one another. “They must have arrived after he did,” she said finally.

            “Right,” Lysanor replied after a moment, nodding and looking away. They didn’t speak of it any more.

            The next room was guarded by a pressure plate, which they nimbly leapt over--or at least, Aela nimbly leapt and Lysanor stomped. It looked, quite simply, like a prison. Tall metal cages lined either wall, shrouded in heavy shadows. It was too dark for them to see what was inside them, and honestly, Lysanor wasn’t sure if they even wanted to see. She quietly pointed out a Silver Hand sitting at a table in the center of a room to Aela, hissing _don’t miss this time_. Her Shield-Sister sent an arrow flying through his brain, and then the throat of the man that stood up in shock immediately afterward.

            “Anyone else?” Aela said softly, creeping into the room. It was silent. They followed the corridor, peering into the dark cages as they did.

            “Look,” Lysanor murmured. “There’s another one.”

            “There are probably a lot of them. There always are,” Aela said. “Keep moving.”

            Lysanor gave the werewolf’s crumpled form one last look before moving along. The room was eerily quiet; it was silent but for their own footsteps and heavy breathing. The dripping of water in one of the damp corners echoed through the room. Suddenly, something inside one of the cages hurled itself against the bars at them, snarling and clawing violently through the gaps.

            “Talos!” Lysanor gasped, clutching at her arm, which was oozing blood. Aela yanked her back, out of reach of the cage.

            “Didn’t think there’d be any live ones,” she hissed. Lysanor raised her torch, heart thrumming violently against her ribs. The werewolf was still snarling, foam dripping from its maw. “Some can’t separate the beast from themselves,” Aela explained, her voice calmer. “Go feral.”

            “It’s…feral? You’re sure?”

            “Yes.”

            Lysanor looked the thing in the eyes, grimacing. She couldn’t see any trace of a person there. Without another word, she drew her bow, nocked an arrow, and let it fly into its skull. She paused and lowered her bow. When it stopped twitching, she put the bow on her back and drew her axe, hurriedly leaving the room.

            The few Silver Hand loitering around the next room were quickly disposed of, as was the man in the corridor leading away from it. The battles were nothing to worry about, but Aela was clearly as tense as she was; she had fallen silent long ago, forsaking her usual chatter. They had to stop after the next room, an enormous two-leveled chamber with Silver Hand shooting at them from all angles, to recuperate. As she bandaged a nasty gash on Aela’s shoulder, her Shield-Sister finally spoke.

            “We should be getting close now,” she whispered. “We’ll need to be careful. The leader here, they call him ‘the Skinner.’” She winced as Lysanor tightened the bandage around the still-bleeding wound. “I don’t think I need to tell you why.”

            “Drink some of the potion,” Lysanor murmured, reaching into her satchel. Aela shook her head.

            “I don’t need that,” she replied, struggling to her feet. She gave her shoulders an experimental flex, seeming satisfied with their functioning. “Just keep your eyes open, alright?”

            “They’re open, Aela.”

            “Good.” Aela whipped out an arrow and nocked it in her bow. “Let’s move.”

            The corridor they were in was as dark and damp as the rest of the fort. Lysanor’s torch illuminated the hallway just enough to cast light over their path. The hall showed signs of a struggle; overturned furniture and smashed vials littered the floor and the walls were streaked with blood. When they reached the end of the corridor, Lysanor set down her torch, held up her shield, and, at Aela’s signal, pushed open the heavy wooden door.

            She wasn’t able to see very far into the large, circular room; broad stone pillars surrounded the chamber, blocking her view. She could hear movement, and voices, and she could see silhouetted figures stalking the length of the room, but that was the extent of it. From Aela’s grimace it was clear that she couldn’t see much, either.

            “Just go,” she whispered. “I’ve got your back.”

            Lysanor didn’t need any more urging. She gritted her teeth, stood, and sprinted in.

            Once she was past the pillars she could see the room more clearly, but there was no time to look around. The bandits seemed almost ready for her. They were already armed, and several men leapt from their seats by a fire and rushed toward her as soon as they caught sight of her. That was one too many. She lashed out at the closest man, aiming for his throat and missing, and backed up as he recovered. Her shield arm flew up instinctively to deflect the swing of a heavy battle axe and pain shot through her shoulder. _Fuck_.

            “Aela?” she yelled, aiming another blow at the nearest Silver Hand. His sword flew up to meet the strike, then lashed back out like lightning. These ones were quicker than the others. She barreled her shield into one man’s middle, not stopping to see if he’d fallen, and swung out at another with her axe. Arrows whizzed over her head--whether or not they were aimed at her, she had no idea. She was so consumed by the heat of the battle that she didn’t bother to look behind her until a searing pain shot through the junction of her neck and shoulder. She cursed, ripping the dagger out of her flesh and jamming it into the throat of the man directly in front of her.

            “Aela, what in Oblivion are you doing?” The wound burned as if the knife was still embedded, white-hot, in her flesh. She ground her teeth together to keep from crying out. It must have been the damned silver weapons. Skjor always had told her to avoid the Silver Hands’ weapons as much as she could—they used silver for a reason. An arrow _whoosh_ ed through the air behind her, followed immediately by a telltale _thunk_ as it met its target. _Thank Talos_. At least Aela was doing _something_.

            As a second man fell from before her and the wall of human flesh thinned, she could finally get a better look at the room. Directly in front of her, past a large campfire and several tanning racks, stood a large Redguard with an even larger silver sword in heavy steel armor. Aela was in front of him, flinging her bow aside. Instead of unsheathing her shortsword, though, she hissed something that Lysanor couldn’t decipher, her body tensing and her fists clenching. Even the man locked in combat with Lysanor turned for a second to glance at the source of the animalistic snarls and growls. Aela’s muscles rippled gruesomely under her skin, flesh stretching and twisting, armor melting away, coarse black fur sprouting from her bare skin. Even the Skinner’s eyes widened with fear.

            Lysanor took advantage of the final man’s momentary distraction and struck out at his neck. This time, she didn’t miss. His head flew back, as if on a hinge, still attached to the rest of his body by a few lucky tendons. She leapt over the bodies of the others, drawing her bow as the Skinner lunged for Aela. The first arrow flew past his head, narrowly missing Aela’s furred arm. The second embedded itself in his side. It didn’t matter, though--no man was a match for the beast. Aela’s claws ripped through his uncovered throat like knives through butter.

            “By Talos,” Lysanor muttered, lowering her weapon and wiping the sweat from her forehead. Once the Skinner stopped moving, Aela’s fur began to creep back under her skin. Within a few moments she was back to her normal size, flexing out her arms and wiping blood from her face.

            Lysanor staggered over to a tanning rack and leaned against it, breathing hard. Her entire breastplate was coated in blood. She groped feebly at the wound on her shoulder, trying to stem the bleeding. With her other hand she felt around her satchel, pulling out the healing potion she had snagged earlier and ripping off the cork with her teeth. A few swallows of the potent drink was all it took for her labored breathing to ease a little.

“Lysa?” Her head shot up, hand instantly going to her axe. Aela’s voice was strangled. “Lysa. Come here.”

            Aela was kneeling on the platform the Skinner had been on, her shoulders hunched painfully. “Are you okay?”

            “They…they…” Aela’s voice caught in her throat. Lysanor climbed up the stairs and crouched next to her, looking her over for any serious injuries. She was so busy making sure Aela wasn’t dying that she didn’t even realize that her sister was cradling a body in her arms. She recoiled in shock, her stomach twisting painfully inside her.

            “No,” she whispered.

            “The bastards,” Aela said shakily. “They…somehow they managed to kill Skjor.”

            Lysanor’s hands rose to her face, shaking as they covered her mouth. Skjor’s stomach and chest were drenched with blood, his distinctive armor torn at the seams of the plates. Those clever grey eyes were glazed, empty. She swallowed hard. “How?”

            “I don’t know,” she said, her voice soft. “He was one of the strongest we had, but…numbers can overwhelm.” She took an unsteady, labored breath. “He should not have come without a Shield-Brother.”

            The room was noiseless but for the sound of their breathing for a long, painful moment. Finally, Aela turned to her. She wasn’t crying, despite the tightness that had been in her voice. Her eyes were dark, jaw clenched. Lysanor was sure her own face must have betrayed the same rage. They gazed at one another silently for a moment; there was nothing that needed to be said.

            “You and I…we have work to do,” Aela whispered. She gently lowered Skjor’s body to the ground, slipping her arms out from underneath him. Her palms were reddened with his blood. “Get back to Jorrvaskr. Tell the others. I’m going to see if there’s any information to be gotten from the bodies.”

            “What about Skjor?”

            She glanced back down at him, her face blank. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll bring him back,” she said softly. “You go.”

            Lysanor bit her lip. She didn’t want to leave Aela all on her own, not after this. She had never known any two as deeply connected as Skjor and Aela had been. It was as though they were two halves of one person. If she were in Aela’s place, she would have already driven a knife through her own throat by now. As if reading her mind, Aela gently shook her head.

            “I’ll be fine, Lysa. Get out of here.”

            She peered into Aela’s eyes. They were still clouded with grief and anger, but she couldn’t detect any dishonesty in her gaze. She took a deep breath, then reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

            “Be quick.”

            Aela nodded silently. Lysanor’s eyes flickered over Skjor’s limp body once more before she turned away. She tucked her axe into her belt and walked away without another word. She felt strangely numb, cold, as if she’d been drenched in icy river water and then whipped by the harsh Whiterun winds. Her feet led her back down the path they had just been down, now silent and littered with bodies. She couldn’t think. It was fortunate that they hadn’t left any bandits alive, because she didn’t think she would have been able to lift her weapon, let alone kill anyone. She took one more deep breath, pushing open the door of the fortress and stepping out into the midday light.

           

            Jorrvaskr loomed darkly over the Wind District, already shrouded in shadows by the time she made it back to Whiterun. What time was it? She had no clue. She wasn’t even sure how long she had been walking. Her head had been spinning since she left Gallows Rock; the second it seemed like she was about to grab hold of a thought, it fluttered away. She dragged herself inside.

            The mead hall was silent, dark. Not even the twins were still up drinking. Lysanor’s feet led her to the stairs, into the living quarters, down the dim corridor. Finally she stood in the open doorway of Kodlak’s room, breathing shallowly.

            “Oh, Lysanor. Good evening.”

            She blinked rapidly, her eyes focusing. Kodlak and Vilkas were sitting inside, speaking quietly, just as they had been when she had first arrived at Jorrvaskr, desperate for some coin and a place to rest. Were they arguing over the beast blood tonight, too? Kodlak rose, concern spreading over his face.

            “Are you alright?”

            Both men approached her. Vilkas took in her bloody, bedraggled form, his eyes narrowing. “Weren’t you on a job with Aela and Skjor? Where are they?”

            She turned to him. “He’s dead.”

            “What?” Vilkas growled. “What are you talking about?”

            “Skjor. He’s dead.”

            Vilkas’s eyes flickered over her face frantically, wild and panicked. He looked enraged that she would even suggest such a thing. Kodlak laid a hand on her shoulder, leaning down a little to look her in the eye. His expression was dreadfully serious, the lines between his brows and around his mouth deepening, but his eyes were as gentle as they had always been.

            “What happened, Lysa?”

            She closed her eyes. “We were going to go to a Silver Hand lair on a job. Skjor went alone…we were going to meet him there. They must have…” She paused, swallowed. “We found him inside.”

            “Well, where is he?” Vilkas’s voice was shaking. “Where is Aela?”

            “She said she would bring him back. She told me to leave without her.”

            “You _left_ them there?”

            Lysanor’s eyes flew open, her body snapping taut with barely contained rage. “Skjor is _dead_ , Vilkas!” she snarled, her voice trembling. “I wasn’t about to stand there arguing with Aela over how to bring his body back!”

            “Skjor is dead?”

            Her head whipped around. Farkas stood just a few feet behind her, his expression utterly devastated. How had she not heard him approach? She rubbed her hands over her face, unable to look him in the eye.

            “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

            “How…how did…” Farkas began, his words catching in his throat. Kodlak shook his head, held his hand out.

            “Enough,” he murmured. “This is…this is a day where our souls must cry, and our hearts will answer.” He took a deep breath, turning back to Lysanor. “Go. Grieve in whatever way you know. We will await Aela’s return.”

            Lysanor didn’t need to hear anything else. She turned before Vilkas could start on her again, clipping Farkas in the shoulder in her haste to get out. He reached out and grabbed her wrist.

            “Where are you going?” he said softly. He sounded so heartbroken.

            “To my quarters.” She wrenched her arm from his grasp. This time, he didn’t try to stop her. The lanterns had been turned on in the corridor and she could hear voices, movement. Ria and Njada were shifting in bed when she walked into the room. Her shouting must have woken them up.

            “Lysa? What’s going on?”

            She didn’t respond, feeling along the wall in the darkness for her bedside table. Her knees finally bumped against the wooden edge of the bed. She unfastened her armor, tossing piece after piece onto the ground. As she was wresting off her boots, Njada lit a lantern and dusty yellow light flooded the room. She winced.

            “You don’t look that well,” Ria said softly. “Is everything okay?”

            Lysanor tossed her gloves onto the table and gently lowered herself onto the bed. Her amulet of Talos dug painfully into her back when she lay down. She moved the pendant so it lay between her breasts. “Skjor is dead.”

            “ _What_?” That was Njada. “Dead? What in Oblivion happened?” The door to the room directly across from them swung open. The men were awake. Lysanor took a deep breath, lowered her head onto the pillow, closed her eyes. She heard the men rush into the room, heard the fear and horror in Ria’s voice as she repeated the news, heard them stumble outside into the hallway. Vilkas’s voice rang out from the corridor, then Kodlak’s. Someone was crying--probably Ria. She could almost smell the grief in the air.

            Her eyes flickered back open, and she stared at the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading.


	4. Eigengrau

            Aela trudged back into the mead hall late the next evening, Skjor’s body slung over her shoulder and her face clouded. The cries of grief that resounded through Jorrvaskr were unlike anything Lysanor had heard before. Other than Kodlak, none of them could remember a time when Skjor wasn’t at Jorrvaskr; he had been a warrior for decades, longer than many of the whelps had been alive. They had naturally gravitated to him for guidance. There was no loss like that of an old warrior.

            Once Skjor’s body had been slipped off of Aela’s back and onto the soft rug before the fire pit, she retired to her room and locked herself in without another word, leaving the others to gather around him and grieve. Lysanor didn’t move from her quarters—she hadn’t since she had gotten back. The morning after Aela’s return, though, Ria gently shook her shoulder, apparently trying to jolt her awake. She looked awful, grim and gaunt, her eyes still puffy and red. Ria had grown up hearing stories, legends of Skjor. She had lost a hero.

            “I’m sorry to wake you up,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse and weak, as if she had fallen ill. “They’re…we’re going up to the Skyforge. To say goodbye to Skjor.”

            Lysanor sluggishly pushed aside her furs, reaching up to rub her face. The skin of her cheeks and eyelids was taut, stiff. Her war paint was still caked on. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her back cracking painfully as she sat up. Ria stood, fetching a washbasin and handing it to her wordlessly. She watched as Lysanor scratched the paint off of her skin, leaving tender pink lines down the length of her face.

            “Are you okay, Lysa?” she murmured. “You’ve been…quiet.”

            “I’m fine.” Lysanor leaned over, placing the bucket of dirtied water back on the ground. She took a slow, deep breath. Ria reached out and gently pushed her damp hair out of her face, tucking a few loose strands behind her ear.

            “Let’s go.”

            The mead hall, for once, was completely silent. Even the fire pit was dull, its crackle subdued and its light dimmed. It probably hadn’t been tended to all day. She lingered for a moment, her feet dragging and her eyes flickering over the eerily empty corridor. Ria slipped her arm over her shoulder and gently pushed, urging her toward the door.

            Whiterun, unlike Jorrvaskr, looked perfectly normal. From their vantage point at the very top of the Wind District they could see most of the rest of the district and the marketplace, where the people of Whiterun were milling about. The harsh midday sun shone painfully into her eyes as Ria led her up to the Skyforge.

            Every head turned to them when they finally ascended to the flattened top of the mountain. Each of her Shield Siblings was gathered around the huge forge, along with a few others--Brill and Vignar were at the other end of the platform, Tilma hung back with her head bowed, Eorlund stood by the crackling embers of the forge itself. Ria kept her hand at Lysanor’s back, pushing her forward until they stood before the forge. Lysanor looked up. On the forge, atop a pile of neatly stacked wood, lay a body covered in a thin white sheet. She shivered and bowed her head.

            “Let us begin,” Kodlak murmured. He took a deep breath and lifted his head, looking up at Skjor’s body. “Before the ancient flame…”

            “We grieve,” the others chorused.

            “At this loss…” Aela whispered.

            “We weep.”

            Vilkas spoke next, his voice hard. “For the fallen…”

            “We shout.”

            “And for ourselves…” Farkas’s words were choked, barely audible.

            “We take our leave,” Lysanor whispered with the rest of the voices. The silence that followed was deafening. Every eye was trained on Kodlak as he stepped forward, torch in hand, and lit the wood at the base of the pyre. They were quiet, watching flames lick over the darkening wood, then the crumpling white cloth.

            Aela turned away first, her head bowed and her fine, reddish brown hair shrouding her face. She slipped past the crowd of people and stepped down the stairs without another word, gone in an instant. Her movement seemed to snap everyone else out of the spell. The others began to trickle off of the Skyforge as well until Lysanor was one of the last people remaining, standing there and staring at the crackling flames.

            The quiet _clunk_ of metal boots against the stone sounded, approaching her. Lysanor glanced over at the sound. Kodlak’s face was tensely calm.

            “Lysanor,” he greeted, standing beside her and looking up at the forge. “Are you alright?”

            “Yes, Harbinger. Thank you.”

            Kodlak didn’t push. He was not, and never had been, a nosy man. He clasped his hands behind his back, quiet for a moment. “His life was long,” he said finally, eyes still focused on the fire. “And his death was honorable. We cannot ask for anything more.”

            She was silent.

            “Take care of yourself, lass,” he murmured, resting his hand on the back of her head for just a moment before turning away. Lysanor watched him descend the stairs, limping faintly. She turned back to the forge. The only ones left were Eorlund, adjusting his worktable, and the twins, who were huddled closely together by the fire. She took a heavy breath and finally turned around herself, stumbling down the cold stone steps.

            The mead hall wasn’t as empty and silent as it had been on her way up--someone, probably Tilma, had tended to the fire and it was now burning strongly, and there were a few tired souls sitting around the tables. It didn’t really matter. She wasn’t going to be sitting in there anyway. She followed the stairs down to the living quarters and slipped into her room, nearly bumping into Njada on her way in. For once, Njada didn’t have a nasty comment to offer.

            Ria looked up at her as she lowered herself heavily onto her bed. She pulled back her furs, kicking off her boots. She hadn’t put her armor on that morning, so there was nothing much to take off. She gestured to the lantern in the corner of the room.

            “Can I put that out?”

            “Yeah, alright.” A frown marred Ria’s gentle features as she watched Lysanor lean over and blow the lantern out. “Lysa…are you sure you should be going back to bed?”

            Lysanor paused, lowering her furs again. “What?”

            “You just…haven’t done much since you got back, that’s all. Don’t you want to go upstairs for a little while?”

            “Not really.” Lysanor slipped under her bedclothes, exhaling softly. “I’m tired.”

            “I know you are. But you’re starting to scare me,” Ria whispered. “You haven’t eaten or anything.”

            “I’m fine, Ria,” Lysanor grumbled. “Just let me be for a while. I want to rest.” Ria’s face was still troubled, her brows drawn tightly together, but she stopped protesting. After a moment, she rose from her bed and quietly walked out of the room. Lysanor took a deep breath, closing her eyes. Perhaps she shouldn’t have snapped at the girl. She would feel bad about it later, when the throbbing at her temples eased a little.

            It seemed as though her eyes had only been closed for a moment when she heard someone walk back into the room. These footsteps, however, were much heavier than Ria’s, and the telltale clinking of metal armor accompanied the sound of boots on the ground. There was the slight _clunk_ of something heavy being set down on the floor next to her bed, and a few seconds later, the bed dipped under someone’s weight as they lowered themselves onto the empty space by her hips. Her eyes flickered open.

            Farkas offered her a small, halfhearted smile. “Hey.”

            “Hi.” She squinted up at him, waiting for eyes to adjust to the darkness. Her vision grew a little clearer and she could see the heavy shadows beneath his eyes, the smudged, streaked remnants of his war paint over his cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

            “Ria told me you’re not getting out of bed.”

            Lysanor sighed heavily, reaching up to rub at her eyes. _Stubborn girl._ Ria was so much like a little girl sometimes--whining and prodding until Lysanor snapped at her, then rushing off to get Papa and make him fix the problem. “I’m just tired, Farkas.”

            “Well, it’s not like you’re going to get much sleep.” He leaned over, reaching out and hesitating for just a moment before gently smoothing his heavy, calloused palm over her hair. “Come up and get something to eat, Lysa,” he said softly. “You’ll feel better.”

            She kept her eyes down, staring silently at her furs as he stroked her hair. She wondered if she should swat his hand aside, but the pressure was more comforting than she wanted to admit. Her eyes drifted closed. “Do I have to?” she whispered.

            “Yes.” Farkas took his hand from her head, patting her knee instead and rising to his feet. “You might be able to intimidate Ria into leaving you alone, but not me. Come on, get up.” He folded his arms across his chest, sternly staring down at her until she tossed her furs off of her and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Good,” he murmured. Ignored the irritated look she gave him, he continued to wait as she adjusted her clothes and tied her hair in a loose knot.

            “Let’s go,” he said, resting his hand between her shoulder blades and carefully guiding her out of the bedroom, the way Ria had done. The living quarters were dead silent, even though it was the middle of the day. Glancing down the corridor she noticed every door was tightly shut, the lights dimmed.

            Farkas silently led her back up the stairs, into the mead hall. There were still a few people huddled around the fire, drinking or talking quietly. When she heard them approaching Ria’s head lifted from her bottle of mead and her face twisted with guilt.

            “Hi,” she said, waving a little. Lysanor waved back. Farkas walked her over to the chair beside Ria and pulled it out for her, then handed her a bottle of mead. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at her.

            “Are you going to be okay?” he said softly. “I need to find my brother.”

            Lysanor craned her neck to peer up at him. She hadn’t even really thought about how he and Vilkas must have been grieving. They had looked up to Skjor. She remembered how Skjor and Aela liked to tease Farkas, how Farkas had lost his temper with Aela more than once—she’d even seen them come to blows before. He had never breathed a word of complaint to Skjor. She lowered her eyes.

            “I’m fine,” she murmured. “Go.”

            “Okay.” He gave her shoulder a quick, solid clap and turned without another word, hurrying out of the room with his head down. Lysanor twisted open her bottle of mead and took a few quick gulps.

            “I’m sorry, Lysa.”

            She glanced up. Ria’s mouth twisted anxiously, her eyes worried. “For what?”

            “For getting Farkas. You just hadn’t been up in a while and I know you listen to him and I didn’t know what to do--” She was starting to go pink, her hands flying wildly as she struggled to explain herself. Lysanor reached over and gently touched her shoulder.

            “It’s okay. I’m not upset.”

            Ria’s wide brown eyes flickered nervously over her face. “Are you sure?”

            “Yes. It was good of you to fetch him. Don’t worry.”

            Her shoulders, drawn up in her worry, relaxed a little. “Okay,” she said softly. She glanced back down at her hands, balled up in her lap. For a moment, the room was silent but for the warm crackle of the fire and the quiet, blurry murmurs of the others.

            “How are you feeling?”

            Ria’s eyes were still wide, concerned. Lysanor tried to smile at her.

            “I’m alright,” she said, keeping her voice steady. Ria nodded slowly, but the slight narrowing to her eyes said that she wasn’t entirely convinced. Before she could ask anything more, Lysanor added, “How are _you_?”

            Ria raised her head, her brows lifting. “I’m okay, too,” she said after a moment. “Just…sad. We’re all sad.” She sighed, her body sagging into the chair as if her will to sit upright had disappeared with the breath. “I never thought something like this could happen to Skjor. I always thought…I guess I didn’t think he _could_ die.” Her eyes were focused on the ceiling, her expression thoughtful. “I guess any of us could die, huh?”

            “We could.”

            “I never really thought about it.” She took one last, deep breath, shaking her head. Lysanor watched her as she took a drag from her bottle of mead. It had never really occurred to her, but Ria was so… _young_. Her eyes were bright, wide open, had the sort of gleam to them that had long since died out in the older warriors. The skin of her face was smooth, pale, tight, her cheeks perpetually flushed with color. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty summers. Lysanor put her elbows on the table, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes. Both of them were silent.

            The hours ticked past, darkness lowering over the city like a dense cloud. When the hall was abandoned and Ria had gone through several bottles of mead, Lysanor decided it was late enough for her to go back to bed and slowly stood up, her legs prickling madly as blood rushed back into them. Ria stood with her, swaying a little.

            “Come on, Ria. Let’s get you to bed,” she murmured, slipping her arm around her shoulders and letting the girl lean against her. Ria’s head slumped over onto her shoulder, her neck craned awkwardly. Together they hobbled back down the stairs into the dark underbelly of Jorrvaskr, stumbling into the bedroom and collapsing onto Ria’s bed. Lysanor slipped her arms free and turned to light a lantern. Ria groaned weakly, throwing up an arm to shield her eyes from the sickly yellow light. Lysanor glanced around, swaying on her own feet. They were alone but for the shadows that the lantern cast over the room. Was Njada still upstairs? She craned her neck, peering out the door and glancing into the men’s room. The living quarters were abandoned. She lowered herself onto the bed, letting out a heavy breath.

            “Turn that off,” Ria whined. Her face was still scrunched up against the light, hands out. Lysanor turned, leaning toward the lantern. Before she could turn it off a glint of metal caught her eye. She glanced down. A heavy silver disc was propped against her chest, the metal molded into intricate angles and spirals. She reached out, lightly brushing her fingertips against the snarling wolf head carved into the centre of the shield. She knew this shield. She’d had it slammed into her gut with all the strength of Ysgramor behind it more times than she could count.

            “Lysa…”

            “Sorry,” she whispered, grabbing the shield and blowing the lantern out. Ria was snoring in moments. Lysanor forced herself back to her feet, stumbling out of the dark room. Farkas’s room was all the way on the other end of the hall, by Kodlak’s quarters. He slept opposite Vilkas, of course, because they couldn’t be without one another for more than a little while. She put her hand on the wall and let her touch lead her down the corridor, slipping into the dip in the wall that led to the twins’ rooms. One door—she could never remember if it was Vilkas’s or his brother’s—was slightly ajar, the room inside dark. She poked her head inside. Nobody there. She turned to the other door, slowly stepping forward and raising a hand to knock. When she stilled she could hear the sounds from inside—a soft voice, choked sobbing. She froze, her insides clenching. _Oh, Talos_.

            She leaned over and propped the shield against the door. Then she turned and rushed back down the hallway, her head down and her heart burning.

           

            Lysanor leaned in against the heavy wooden door again, her ear pressed firmly against it in an attempt to hear what was going on inside. Dead silence. Every time she’d eavesdropped on someone through a closed door in the past few weeks there had been some sort of crying or whimpering. The quiet was worrying—especially for Aela, who was never quiet unless she was on a hunt. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Gods, did she hope she wasn’t going to walk in to a dead body.

            A shadow had been cast over Jorrvaskr, shrouding over them and leaving them locked within its four walls. None of them had left on a job since Skjor’s death, which had been weeks ago. Even Kodlak, their guide, seemed a bit lost without Skjor at his side.

            These past few days it seemed like things were finally starting to creep back to normalcy. The mead hall was a little noisier, a little warmer in the evenings. The few times she went upstairs to eat with the others she caught snippets of easy, light-hearted conversations—jokes about dragons, discussions of possible love affairs around Whiterun, quiet insults to particular fighting techniques (namely Athis’s.) Even the other members of the Circle were starting to recover. A few days ago Vilkas had dropped by her room and silently handed her a stack of letters, the first time he’d even acknowledged her presence in weeks. And if Vilkas was recuperating, Farkas couldn’t have been far behind.

            But Aela was silent, barred in her room. In the first few days after the funeral Ria had whispered something about how Aela was sure to be infuriated, how it would be a good idea to avoid her for a few weeks. It hadn’t mattered, as it turned out. Aela hadn’t breathed a word to anyone in days. Lysanor wasn’t even sure if she had left her quarters at all, to eat or otherwise. So Lysanor made her way to Aela’s door while her own thoughts were still clear. It was a few more moments before she could muster up the courage to carefully jiggle the doorknob.

            “Who is it?” Aela called warily. Lysanor breathed a quiet sigh of relief, resting her forehead against the wood. So she _was_ alive.

            “It’s Lysanor.”

            There was a brief silence. Then, suddenly, the lock clattered and clicked and the door creaked open.

            “Come in.”

            She carefully stepped inside and immediately squinted, shielding her eyes from the light. Lanterns burned in every corner. The light cruelly illuminated the planes of Aela’s haggard face, highlighting the lines by her mouth, the deep shadows under her eyes. Her hair and clothes were in utter disarray, but her eyes were wide, unclouded.

            “Aela,” Lysanor said quietly, taking in her worn, rumpled clothes. Her tunic was bloodied, breeches stained and torn. Were those the same clothes she had been wearing when they left? “Where have you been?”

            Aela leaned back in her chair, lifting her chin to look up at her. “I’ve been right here.”

            “You know what I mean.” Lysanor stood by the door, twisted the heavy gold ring on her finger. She took a deep breath. “I know it’s hard,” she said softly. “But you can’t let this…take over your life. You have to be strong.” The words fell painfully flat even to her own ears. Aela’s expression grew more skeptical with each sentence.

            “What are you talking about?” she scoffed. “Nothing’s taking over my life, Lysa.”

            Lysanor looked her over, searching for dishonesty in her gaze. “But ever since…ever since Skjor you’ve been so…”

            “People have died at Jorrvaskr before, you know. My parents are dead. Most of the warriors I grew up with are dead. This isn’t the first time this has happened and it won’t be the last.” She ran her fingers through her wild auburn hair, combing it out of her eyes. “I’m not losing my mind. I’m perfectly alright.”

            “Then why have you been holed up in here this entire time?”

            “I’ve been working.” For the first time Lysanor noticed the mess on Aela’s desk--the crumpled parchment, the torn letters, the stacks of books. Spread directly before her was an immense stretch of paper held down with inkwells placed on the corners.

            “What’s that?”

            Aela beckoned her forward, a strange smile twisting her lips. She walked over, stood behind the chair Aela was sitting on. It was a map of Skyrim. It was strikingly detailed, with carefully outlined borders of each hold and dark rivers winding over the paper.

            “Wow,” she murmured.

            “It’s nice, isn’t it? It was Skjor’s.” Lysanor glanced down at Aela, who was smiling fondly at the map. “He always told me he made it himself.” She sighed, absently smoothing her fingers over the worn parchment. After a moment, she added, “I’ve been keeping myself busy.”

            Lysanor leaned down further. Now that she looked more closely she noticed frantically drawn circles and scribbled notes all over the map. “What is all this?”

            Aela’s voice was soft. “Every Silver Hand hideout in Skyrim.”

            Her eyes were bright with pride as Lysanor looked up at her. “I looked through every letter and every book in Jorrvaskr. I even had to go through some of Kodlak’s things.” She lightly touched a particularly dark circle that she had scrawled onto the mountains of the Pale. “And I did it. This has to be it.”

            Lysanor stared, her eyes flickering over her face. For a moment she could hear Aela’s voice echoing in her head, dark, the way it had been at Gallows Rock. _We have work to do_. She glanced back down at the map. “You want us to…”

            Aela’s chair clattered violently as she stood, her palms braced on the table and her eyes wild. “We’re going to finish them,” she hissed. “We’re going to wipe them out, Lysa.”

            She was quiet for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be better,” she said finally, “to kill their leader and then just…let them scatter?”

            “Leader? Do you know anything about the Silver Hand?” Aela scoffed. “They don’t have a leader. They call themselves a brotherhood but they’re just a group of glorified bandits. Haven’t you ever wondered why we only ever find them scattered around Skyrim, in--in old forts and Draugr crypts?”

            Lysanor stammered for a response, but Aela was too caught up in her own rant to wait for one.

            “And even if there _is_ a better way to go about it, I don’t care. Do you have any idea what those vermin have taken from us? They’ve stolen pieces of Wuuthrad. They’ve killed our people. I want them all dead, Lysa. Every last one of them. I don’t care.” Her eyes were wide as she awaited her reaction. “What do you say?”

            She looked back over at the map, swallowing hard. More of the parchment was marked than not. After a moment, she whispered, “Where do we start?”

            A triumphant smile spread over Aela’s face. “I knew you would understand,” she said. She whirled around to face the map again and leaned over, moving her hands in a wide, sweeping gesture over the parchment. “The bastards are all over Skyrim. We have our work cut out for us.” She tapped the map with one long index finger, right on top of the symbol for Whiterun. “I thought we’d start close to home and work our way out. There’s one right outside of Whiterun, some abandoned mine that they’ve taken over.” Lysanor leaned over, frowning. One of the frantic, dark circles was drawn around a dot just north of the city. “If you’re ready, then as soon as it’s light tomorrow we can set out.”

            “Wait. Aela… I think you should stay home.”

            Aela’s eyes narrowed slowly. “What?”

            “You haven’t been out of your quarters in weeks. You…you look sick.” Aela started to protest, but Lysanor lifted a hand, holding back her words. “I’ve been on hundreds of jobs on my own. I’ll be fine. Please, just stay back and get some rest this once.”

            “Are you…sure you should be going alone?” Aela whispered, her eyes wide with something other than excitement for the first time that night. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

            “I can handle it.”

            “If you’re sure.” Aela took a deep breath, sinking down into her chair with her gaze still fixed on her map. It was as though the conversation had sapped the energy right out of her. “Skjor’s spirit will be with you. I know it.” After a moment, she extended her hand. “Give me your map. I’ll mark the place for you.”

            Lysanor rummaged around in her satchel, slipping the much shabbier, smaller map between Aela’s fingers. She slowly rolled it out atop her own map and reached for a quill, dabbing it delicately in an inkwell. Lysanor watched silently as she drew careful circles on the parchment.

            “You know,” she said suddenly, “I never told him I loved him.”

            She looked up at Aela’s face, but it was still tense with focus, eyes fixed on the map. “Skjor?” she asked, hesitant. She supposed that there was no point in asking, but they had never really admitted to anyone that they were together like that. Aela was always firm in her denial, and Lysanor didn’t think anyone had dared ask Skjor about it. It was odd to hear Aela talk about it as though they had kept their relationship out in the open the entire time.

            “Yes.”

            “Why?”

            The quill, still clenched in Aela’s fist, paused. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I guess…I just thought he already knew.”

            Lysanor was silent for a moment, searching for the words. “I’m sure he did,” she said finally.

            Aela gently set the quill back down, blowing lightly on the ink. “I hope so.” She ran her thumb over the darkest marks, and, when the ink didn’t smear, she carefully rolled the parchment back up for her. “I marked the closest ones for you. Just in case.”

            “Thank you.” Aela watched quietly as she tucked the map back into her satchel. “You really should come back upstairs. The others are worried.”

            “I will. Sooner or later.” She stood up again, her arm extending just a little, as if she wanted to take her hand. “Be careful, alright, Lysa? I don’t want your blood on my hands, too.”

            Lysanor squeezed her shoulder. “Goodnight, Aela,” she murmured. She closed her satchel and stepped out of the room, gently shutting the door behind her.

            Outside, she could hear faint, muffled voices from the twins’ rooms. Her quarters, on the other hand, were deserted, the beds neatly made and the lanterns dimmed. She slipped inside and locked the door. Lowering herself onto her bed, she reached into her satchel, pulled out the map that Aela had just marked and slowly rolled it open. The vast plains surrounding Whiterun were dotted with circles and stars. It seemed like Aela had marked off a hideout every few feet.

            Aela’s voice rang in her ears. _You know, I never told him I loved him_. Her teeth ground together, resolve hardening.

            A few minutes later she stood outside Farkas’s door, lightly rapping at the wood. When his voice rang out she pushed it open and poked her head inside. Unlike Aela, Farkas wasn’t alone. He was slumped against his desk, head propped against his hand, with his brother in the chair on the opposite end of the room. They both turned to her at the same time, two pairs of the exact same pale blue eyes focused on her. She grimaced.

            “I’m sorry. Are you busy?”

            “No, no. Come in.” He sluggishly waved her in, rubbing his eyes. “What do you need?”

            “I…was looking for a job, actually.”

            Farkas lifted his head from his hand. “Were you?”

            “Aye.”

            “Well, you’re the only one,” he muttered. He leaned over slowly, as if it hurt him, and reached over to an impressive stack of papers on the other end of his desk. He squinted a little as he read through them. “Let’s see,” he said. “There’s a clan of vampires that needs to be dealt with in Hjaalmarch, if you’re interested.”

            “Actually, I was looking for something a little closer to home.”

            Farkas glanced up at her from his papers. Hastily, she added, “I’m going to be alone. Didn’t think I should be going too far.”

            “Oh. Guess you’re right.” He turned back to the letters, flicking through them. Vilkas’s eyes remained trained on her,. “How about a Falmer hive? The jarl’s put up a bounty to have it cleared out.”

            “Is it nearby?”

            “Just north of the city.”

            “That’s fine. Thank you.” She was already beginning to back out of the room by the end of the sentence, letter grasped in her hand.

            Farkas set his letters down. “Be careful.”

            “I will.” After offering him a weak smile and staring at anywhere but his brother’s suspicious eyes, she slipped out and carefully shut the door. Outside in the hall, she paused by an immense, swaying banner of Wuuthrad and slowly read through the letter, mouthing the words to herself. Some Falmer had built a hive by a small town a few days’ travel from Whiterun and were apparently attacking the villagers at night. When she pulled out her map and searched for the village, she found it nestled at the base of the mountains of northeast Whiterun. It couldn’t have been too far from the abandoned mine that Aela had marked off. She tucked the map into her belt and straightened up, flexing her shoulders. Time for a trip to Breezehome.


	5. Oxblood

            Icy raindrops hurtled from the skies, shattering into a thousand shards against Lysanor’s iron helmet as she crept down the slick cobblestone path. She tightened her travel cloak around herself. The showers were an obvious prelude to the painful snowstorms of another harsh Skyrim winter, but she hardly even registered the cold or the dull ache settling deeply into her limbs. Instead, her eyes flickered over the dark, sunken walls of the mine and surrounding fort. In the pounding rain she could hardly see the mine itself, let alone any guards that might be perched on the walls. She crouched in the grass, squinting. The rain and fog refused to relent, though, so she straightened up and quietly crept toward the entrance of the mine.

            Luckily, or maybe not, there weren’t any guards outside the mine or even by its entrance. She paused outside the sunken, worn wooden door of the mine, adjusting her weapons. After a moment of consideration, she strapped her shield to her hip and pulled a second war axe from her hip. When she first returned to Jorrvaskr from Sovngarde, she’d given up dual-wielding weapons in favor of the more traditional sword-and-shield method favored by other members of the Circle. But she was battling alone again, she reasoned to herself, and she wasn’t as worried about fighting like she had been taught as she was killing as many of the Silver Hand as quickly as possible. Mind made up, she tightened her grip on her axes and, with her shoulder, pushed open the door.

            The second the door creaked shut behind her a sickly quiet settled over her, the pounding of the rain so dull it seemed like nothing more than a murmur in her head. She glanced around at the veins of metal running along the sharply sloped, tunnel-like hallway directly across her, at the wooden table and chairs in the other corner of the “room.” Her breathing seemed far too loud in the small room. She took a few steps into the tunnel, her armor clanking conspicuously. Just as she had expected, there was a quiet rustling from inside the tunnel and the sound of voices. Footsteps quickly approached her, as did hovering globes of light that flickered around lanterns held aloft.

            “Who’s there?”

            She stepped forward for their benefit. The voices grew louder, anxious. “Look at that armor—it’s one of them!”

            There was the loud scrape of metal as weapons were unsheathed and the lanterns were flung to the ground, leaving the tunnel illuminated by a faint, sickly glow. She braced herself and held her axes aloft. Her heart beat in time with the thundering of the bandits’ footprints, quickening, so loud that she could feel it in her teeth—and then those glimmering silver weapons were upon her. She made quick work of them. Before she’d really had a chance to think about it, one Silver Hand was slumped motionless against the wall, a waterfall of blood gushed from what was left of another’s throat and a third had his axe sticking out of his forehead. She braced her foot against the man’s chest and yanked the axe with both hands. That couldn’t be all there was. There had to be more of them. Hooking one of the cracked, abandoned lanterns in her belt, she straightened up and made her way down the hallway.

            The tunnel led her downwards, deeper into the earth, branching out into alcoves littered with pickaxes and chunks of dirt-encrusted ore. She crept into each nook, pushing aside carts and tables and raising her lantern to check in corners. Nothing. She followed the steadily darkening tunnel into the earth. The path led her to the top of an immense clearing with rickety wooden stairs spiraling down into a gaping, blackened vertical drop. Putting aside one axe for a minute to hold up her lantern, she leaned in and glanced down into the hole. Light sank down into the blackness and she could sense movement at the bottom of the wooden steps. She crept down them, lantern clanking against her armored thigh. At the bottom, a large man with long hair and rusty metallic armor sat in a fragile-looking chair, a length of parchment clasped in his hands.

            As she approached quietly, boots sinking into the loose dirt, he lifted his head without turning around. “Is that you, Geimund?” he said absently, his accent heavily Nordic. Lysanor slowly walked forward until she only stood a few feet from him.

            “No.”

            The man stood with almost inhuman speed, whirling around and knocking the chair aside. The only sources of light in the cold darkness of the cavern, the mangled lantern at Lysanor’s hip and another on a desk in front of the Silver Hand’s chair, cast faint shadows over the man’s immense bulk and worn, scarred face. His eyes fluttered over Lysanor’s armor and realization smoothed his features for a moment before his lip curled in disgust.

            “Animals,” he said softly. “All of you. Nothing more than animals.”

            Gods, did she hate when the people she was supposed to be killing tried to talk to her. She didn’t have time for this. He didn’t make her wait much longer, though—almost as soon as the words had left his lips he was drawing his sword and reaching for the shield lying next to the desk. That was all she needed. She lunged, axes out and teeth bared. The _clang!_ of her axe striking first his sword, then his shield, resounded in the empty chamber. She lashed out again, and again, struggling to get a blow at his uncovered throat. His sword caught her arm and blood spurted from the gash, followed by a flash of blinding agony. She flung her axe blindly into the man’s gut, and, as he doubled over, swung both axes through his throat.

            She wheezed painfully, sinking onto her haunches as the man collapsed to the floor. She glanced down. Her arm was gushing blood more than seemed reasonable. Dropping her axes, she groped weakly at her satchel for the rolls of bandages she’d picked up at Breezehome. The bleeding slowed, then finally oozed to a sticky stop as she wrapped the wound up. The burning pain, however, remained. _Godforsaken silver._

            Still slumped on the ground, clutching her arm, she glanced around the dark chamber. Aside from the desk, a few scattered chairs and the remains of a bonfire, there wasn’t much of anything at all, let alone something living. Was that really all—four men? She pulled off her helmet and wiped the sweat out of her eyes. That couldn’t be it.

            But it was. Once she’d caught her breath and her arm seemed stable enough, she wandered through the whole place once more, checking every nook and cranny. It was empty but for the bodies of the men she had slaughtered. She leaned over the flimsy wooden railing of the stairs, giving one last look to the crumpled body of the man she assumed was the leader. Without another thought, she wiped her bloodied hands on her thighs and walked back up the dirt tunnel that had brought her into the mine.

           

            Lysanor paused just inside of Jorrvaskr to collect herself on a gloomy evening several days later. As if the bandits in the mine weren’t enough, she’d had to deal with that Falmer hive right after, and she was notoriously dreadful with Falmer. Gods, why had she taken that job in the first place? Everything hurt. There was blood trickling into her eyes from a jagged gash on her forehead and the wound from the silver blade still throbbed with pain. A stinging mixture of blood and sweat dripped past her lashes, colored the world, made it a sticky blur of red and brown. She tore off her helmet and swiped roughly at her eyes. As her vision cleared, the warm, flickering light of the hall came into focus, as did the quiet silhouettes huddled around the fire. The slender, dark-haired figure at the corner of the table, in particular, stood out. She crept across the room and slipped into the chair next to Aela, setting her helmet on the table.

            “Welcome back, Lysa,” Aela murmured without glancing up from her plate. Lysanor smiled.

            “How did you know it was me?”

            “How could I not? Clanking in here with all that armor, smelling like you’ve just slaughtered half of Whiterun...” Her gleaming, cracked-jade eyes flickered up and remained trained on Lysanor’s face even as she tilted her head back to sip her mead. The glass bottle _clunk_ ed softly against the table. “So? How did it go?”

            “Fine. There weren’t very many of them.”

            “Of course there weren’t. What did you expect, an army?” Aela scoffed. “You think too much of them, girl. They’re bandits, nothing more.”

            “Right.” She watched, quiet, as firelight flickered over Aela’s face. Perhaps it was just the strange way the light fell across her, but something about her face seemed oddly hollow. Aela’s fingers traced invisible paths over the rim of the bottle in her hands. Troubled by the quiet and the strange look on Aela’s face, Lysanor drew breath to speak, but Aela beat her to the punch.

            “You did well,” she said. “I’m glad you’re back alive. If something happened to you, I’d be the only person left with any sense around here.” She smiled and passed a bottle over to her, the odd emptiness in her expression gone for the moment. Lysanor smiled back. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

            She stood with the bottle in hand, dismissed. “Thank you,” she said, raising the bottle to her in a silent toast. “Goodnight.” Aela waved and turned back to her drink, and Lysanor slowly walked across the hall. At the top of the stairs she paused, leaned against the railing, and took a slow, deep breath. Her chest felt painfully tight, but for a moment, when she breathed in, everything seemed to relax. She closed her eyes. For just a few seconds, things seemed right again.

 

            “Gods damn it,” she hissed under her breath, fingers twitching as she smeared salve over the gash on her arm. She’d “borrowed” the small, delicate jar from Farkas’s room earlier in the day—it could cure all ailments, he had once told her, from a runny nose to a severed limb. He must have been exaggerating. The shallow scratches and bites from the Falmer had healed up well enough, but she must have smoothed the ointment into the wound from the Silver Hand a hundred times, eyes watering from the strong, spicy smell, and it certainly hadn’t healed. It didn’t even hurt any less. She gave a tired sigh, rubbing the back of her hand over her forehead.

            “Ria? Are you—oh.”

            Lysanor jumped at the sound of the voice, and the jar slipped from her fingers and clattered against the wooden floor. She snatched it back up. Vilkas stood in the doorway, his eyes politely averted from her—she’d taken off her tunic to tend to her wounds. He was fully armored, save for his helmet. How had she not heard him in the hallway? She must have been losing her touch.

            “Apologies, Lysanor.” She waved her hand dismissively. Her modesty had trickled away, along with her dignity, long ago. “I was looking for Ria.”

            “She isn’t here,” she replied, gesturing to the rest of the empty room. “Did you need her?”

            “She was supposed to be training with me,” Vilkas muttered. A faint scowl was already beginning to grace his dark lips. Ria was in trouble.

            Lysanor shrugged. “I think she went down to the Plains District.”

            “Hmph.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Well, thanks.”

            She made a noncommittal sort of grunt, turning back to her arm. Instead of slinking off to go sulk in his room for a bit or perhaps go track Ria down and give her one of his famous tongue-lashings, Vilkas leaned against the doorframe, watching her.

            “Is that my brother’s?” he asked, pointing to the salve. She glanced down at the jar. If they could even identify bottles from one another’s rooms, the twins were _definitely_ spending too much time together. She nodded. “That’s strange. It should have healed your wound by now,” he muttered.

            “I know. I’m not sure what to do,” Lysanor sighed. The jar found a home at the bottom of her drawer, to be returned to Farkas when she got around to visiting his room again or he figured out that she was the one taking his things—whichever one came first. “These ones always hurt like hell, too.”

            “What do you mean, these ones?”

            She glanced up at him, then back at her wound, her mouth twisting. “I got this from a silver sword,” she admitted.

            “Did you?” Vilkas’s brows rose, but his tone was flat, as if he was acting surprised simply to be polite. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could see the strange, wary look that he had had on his face when she went to Farkas for the job. He was wearing the same look now. “Well, that explains it. That won’t help with silver wounds.”

            “It won’t?”

            “No.”

            She dug her fingertips into her temple. “Well, what am I supposed to do, then? Healing potions don’t work either.”

            “They won’t,” he agreed. Vilkas wasn’t usually all too sympathetic toward her, but he looked at least a little bit sorry this time. “There’s not much you can do. Just try not to get hit next time.”

            “Great,” she sighed. She scratched around her wound until the skin grew warm and pink. “Why do they always burn like that?” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

            “Silver is the metal of the moons.” Vilkas’s voice had taken on that authoritative tone that it always took when he was sharing his vast oceans of knowledge with someone less worldly. Even as she mocked him in her mind, Lysanor listened. Vilkas always knew what he was talking about. “It poisons the blood. _Our_ blood, that is,” he clarified.

            “It does?” Her wound didn’t really look poisoned: no pus, no dark red lines stretching away from the cut in thin, sickly paths. But it did sting, and it looked just as bad as it had when she had gotten it. She touched it with the tips of her fingers. “How do they even know about that? The Silver Hand?” She’d never heard of any such metal that was like poison, and her father must have told her hundreds of werewolf tales when she was a child to keep her home after dark.  

            “They’ve been experimenting for years,” Vilkas shrugged. “Have you ever been to a Silver Hand lair?”

            “Of course I have.”

            “So you’ve seen the bodies, then.” _Oh_. The bodies. She’d seen the bodies. When she was with on her Trial in Dustman’s Cairn Farkas had done a good job of ushering her along and keeping her from doing much investigating, but she’d seen the bodies at Gallows Rock. Mangled, twisted, skinned…it wasn’t hard to imagine herself or one of her brothers in the place of the poor souls strung up against the wall. She grimaced. “Exactly. _We’re_ not quite like any beast they find in the forest, of course, but we have many of the same weaknesses. Silver, lavender. That sort of thing.”

            “So…they haven’t taken any of the Circle?”

            “We usually bring our dead back before they can string them up and skin them. But they’ve killed plenty of our men. Skjor wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. And they’ve taken pieces of Wuuthrad, too. You know that.” A fierce, sudden anger colored Vilkas’s eyes. He stared bitterly down at his crossed arms. “They’ve taken enough from us over the years,” he muttered.

            Lysanor looked down at her hands, bloodied and limp against her clothed thighs, still sticky with the remnants of the special salve. All of a sudden they seemed empty without the handle of a blade clenched in their grasp. “I don’t understand,” she said finally, “how they even found out about our condition anyway. No one around here knows.”

            “Well,” Vilkas said, “The man that formed the Silver Hand was once a member of the Circle, you know.”

            Her head snapped up. “Of…the Circle? _Our_ Circle?”

            “Our Circle,” he said, nodding.

            “But…we take an oath of secrecy. And we vow to honor and to serve the people of Skyrim…” Her voice trailed off, lost somewhere in her mind. “And they’re _bandits_.”

            Vilkas was quiet for once, his pale, gleaming eyes flickering over her face like torchbugs beneath the shadow of his dark brow. “Vows don’t mean as much as you think they do,” he murmured. “He was one of our warriors, long before you were even born. He turned. And… he hated it. He thought it was…despicable. Shameful. And as it turned out, there were plenty that felt the same way.”

            “But you hate it too,” Lysanor said, the words falling past her lips before she could stop them. His brows rose, just a little. He’d never really told her that himself—they didn’t often have deep, heart-to-heart conversations. She’d just picked it up from snippets of conversations that she overheard from the others. Vilkas hated their boon just as much as Kodlak did, maybe even more.

            “Yes,” he said finally. “But I do not hate my Shield-Brothers.”

            She fell silent. For a moment, Vilkas hesitated in the doorway, his eyes still trained helplessly on her as though he had more to say but wasn’t quite sure how to say it. Then he cleared his throat and tightened his armored arms over his chest. “You should go to Arcadia and get that stitched up. It will heal, slowly.”

            “I will. Thank you, Vilkas.”

            He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “If you see Ria, let her know I was looking for her.”

            “Alright.”

            One quiet farewell later he was gone, leaving Lysanor alone with her thoughts. The idea of a member of the Circle hunting werewolves…it was unfathomable. These were her brothers, her kin. There were times when she couldn’t stand them, of course, but they were her family nonetheless. She couldn’t imagine turning against them, hunting them like animals…she shuddered.

            She limped—something was hurting her ankle—back out of the room when her arm was bandaged and her tunic was back on, ready to head upstairs and mull over the conversation with a bottle of mead. Just as she was grasping the railing and lifting herself onto the first step, though, her name rang out from the other end of the hall. She turned, squinting a little in the dim light.

            “Aela?”

             “Lysa,” she said again once she’d hurried over to the stairs, Lysanor’s name turning into more of a breathless gasp than a word. “Are you alright to leave later today?”

            “Leave?” Lysanor repeated. “Where am I going?”

            Aela waved a flimsy scrap of parchment in her face. “Rumor has it, there’s a piece of Wuuthrad in a fort a little ways from Solitude. We’re going to go check it out.” Lysanor snatched the waving bit of paper out of Aela’s hand, smoothing it out. Too impatient to work through each word, she skimmed through the long, smooth curves and dots of ink, picking up the occasional phrase here and there. Shard of Wuuthrad… Solitude… Silver Hand, all signed by a name she’d never heard of before. She glanced up at Aela’s expectant grin.

            “Are you sure you believe this?”

            “Not at all. But even if they don’t have a piece of Wuuthrad with them, we can get plenty of work done in a Silver Hand lair.” She smirked. “What do you say?”

            For a moment, Lysanor’s mind flickered back to Vilkas, his bitter explanation of what the Silver Hand had taken from them, of what they did to her kind. But, really, the word “Wuuthrad” was all she needed to hear. She could limp across Skyrim if it meant getting back one of the priceless shards of Ysgramor’s axe. Vengeance just made it sweeter.

            “Alright,” she said. “Can you give me a few hours?”

            “Of course,” Aela said, clearly made much more generous by Lysanor’s compliance. “We’ll leave right before dark.” As Lysanor turned to leave, Aela cleared her throat. “Wait—Lysa.”

            She glanced back.

            “I saw Vilkas in your quarters a little while ago. What was he doing in there?”

            Lysanor frowned at her in disgust. “We were just talking, Aela.”

            “I know that,” Aela sighed. “What were you talking _about_?”

            “Nothing.” At Aela’s irritated look, she added, “I got hurt by a silver sword, and he was explaining why it wouldn’t heal. And he told me about the Silver Hand.”

            Aela exhaled heavily, took a step closer. “That’s what I thought,” she muttered, her voice low. “Look. Why don’t we keep our little campaign between us, alright, Lysa?”   

            “What? What does it matter if Vilkas knows?”

            “It doesn’t. But if it gets to Vilkas, then it’ll get to Kodlak, and if it gets to Kodlak…it’s just better if he doesn’t know.” She frowned at her. “What do you care, anyway? You don’t even like him.”

            “No,” she agreed slowly. “I just…didn’t think it mattered that much. I don’t think anyone will fault us for trying to avenge Skjor.”

            “They shouldn’t. But you never know, so let’s keep it quiet, alright?” She gave her shoulder a quick clap. “I’ll meet you outside around sunset.”

 

            The sun crept lethargically into the sky, stilled at the peak of day like a sentinel erect at his post, then began to droop back below the horizon just as Lysanor was stepping out of Jorrvaskr. She shielded her eyes from the orange-white rays of light with one gloved hand. Aela was leaning against the wall, her gaze fixed somewhere far away. Lysanor walked over to her and prodded her arm. She jumped, eyes snapping to Lysanor’s face.

            “Shall we go?”

            Aela nodded, strands of her auburn hair already beginning to fall into her eyes.

            “Yes. Come on.” Without another word, Aela turned, grasping the strap of her quiver with her free hand, and walked down the ancient stone steps outside of Jorrvaskr. Lysanor followed. At the last few steps, just across the Gildergreen, she couldn’t help but turn and look back. Her eyes were drawn not to the vast walls and pillars of the mead hall, but to the immense statue of Talos embedded in the earth beside it. The statue, so heavily tilted to one side that Lysanor always worried that it would one day topple over, had been there for decades, maybe longer—perhaps as long as Jorrvaskr itself. The gritty, dimpled stone had long been worn smooth on Talos’s hands, the hilt of his sword, by passersby and worshipers hoping to share in a bit of his glory. His eyes, though, stony and silent, were as they had always been. As she stepped down the stairs, for a fraction of a moment the sinking sun was concealed behind Talos’s immense, stone head, as if it, too, was kneeling before him.

            “Lysanor! What are you waiting for?”

            “Coming,” Lysanor called, her gaze still fixed on the strange shadows cast over Talos’s face by the sinking orange light. The sun continued on its path into the curve of the earth, and the moment was gone. Her eyes fluttered closed for a heartbeat. Then she turned, her back to the falling sun, and walked down the last steps from Jorrvaskr.

           

            The path that wound through Whiterun’s icy, glimmering plains seemed to stretch on before them without end, drawing them closer and closer to the setting sun. Lysanor’s boots crunched through the snow, the pack heavy on her shoulder and her breath puffing out in wispy clouds. She looked over at Aela. Her companion’s eyes were distant, gazing off into the fog where the broad dirt path disappeared into the mist.

Aela’s chosen target, a crumbling fort in the vast swathe of land where Haafingar blended into the Reach, was a long, painful trek from Whiterun—they were marching across just about half of Skyrim. Without horses the journey seemed even longer. Aela insisted, then, on stopping as little as they could manage without just dropping dead in the middle of the path. They didn’t need to sleep, she argued, so what good would it do to stop for anything other than meals—if that?

            Lysanor was just as eager to get there and finish the job as Aela was, but even when she was dragging herself up the seven thousand steps to the Throat of the World and back again, she stopped every once in a while to put her things down and rest her aching legs. Aela seemed to think they were running out of time, though. Every time they stopped and sat down, she would watch the skies with her knee frantically bouncing up and down, as if even her legs were awaiting Lysanor’s “let’s go” with bated breath. The one evening that Lysanor managed to convince her into spending the night at an inn, sheltered from the harsh winds that buffeted the Whiterun tundra, she sat quietly in a corner and glanced out the window every few minutes to check for the light of day. When she finally succumbed to curiosity and asked Aela what the matter was, she responded, “I just don’t want them getting away, is all. They’re skittish.”

            So Lysanor gave in, if only to give Aela a little peace of mind, and they traveled through the nights as quickly as they did the days. By the time the frostbitten tundra melted into rocky plains with orange-yellow shrubs that looked as though every sunrise set them ablaze, every inch of Lysanor was aching. After all, Aela hadn’t really given her any time to recover from her last excursion before sweeping her off onto another. The wound in her arm still burned with an icy sort of fire, though she’d had it stitched and smeared with ointment at Arcadia’s. She wasn’t quite sure that she would have the energy to lift her sword, let alone clean out a Silver Hand lair.

            As weeks of travel drew to a close, Aela finally pointed out an immense stone fort flush against the side of the mountains that marked the borders of the Reach, overlooking the grand Karth River. “Finally,” she growled, her fingers quivering with either excitement or the cold—perhaps both. “I thought we’d never get here. Are you ready for this?”

            She wasn’t, but it didn’t seem like the best time to say that. Instead, she muttered, “I hope they’re still there.” It wouldn’t have been the first time that she trekked across Skyrim to get to a bandit lair only to find out the place had been abandoned weeks ago. Aela shot her a dark look that told her that wasn’t the right response, either.

            “Let’s go make sure.”

            The rocky side of the mountain crumbled like snow beneath their feet as they clawed their way up. Taking the winding path around the base of the mountain would take too long, said a now-worried Aela, so they decided to scale the side instead. Lysanor’s fingers were worn to the bone by the time they stopped outside the grim stone walls of the fort. Aela couldn’t have been much better off, but she didn’t even pause to catch her breath before stalking inside, shooting down the sentinel at the highest point of the fort.

            There was nothing special, really, about the grimy, dark innards of the fort; it was just like every other abandoned tower or fortress in Haafingar, quiet and filthy with dense, musty air. It was so wholly innocuous that it seemed to be making Aela a little angry. She crept through twisting stairways and dark halls like a sabre cat stalking its prey, not even bothering to look back and see if Lysanor was still behind her. “Where are they?” she whispered to herself. “There has to be more than that. Come on out, you little rats.”

            Her plea was answered quickly enough. At the top of one of the towers overlooking the rest of the fort they found two men sitting in rickety wooden chairs, muttering to themselves. Lysanor gutted one and Aela drove an arrow through the other’s throat, and when both bodies were still, Aela picked up one of their swords and ran her bare fingertips over it. She shuddered and the sword clattered to the floor.

            “Silver,” she said, satisfaction thick in her voice despite the disgust etched on her face. “You had me worried for nothing, Lysa.”

            Lysanor murmured an absent-minded apology, but Aela was too busy rushing back down the stairs to listen. The discovery, and the kill, invigorated her. She swept through the halls with a renewed passion, shooting arrows at even the slightest movement and ransacking every fresh corpse. Lysanor couldn’t help but feel a little more wary; on her Trial, they’d found the shard of Wuuthrad clenched in the cold, bony fingers of a draugr that drew its sword the second she’d pried the shard from its grasp. At least all the men they’d slaughtered so far were all wholly alive before they were beheaded.

              But the fort seemed to have a thousand rooms and halls and stairways to check, and they had yet to come across any sign of Wuuthrad at all. That wouldn’t have mattered all that much if there had just been more men to kill. The place looked just as abandoned from the inside as it did from the side of the mountain. They crept like shadows through the dark, damp underbelly of the fort, torches aloft.

            “Can you believe this?” Aela muttered as they pushed open a wooden door with a jarring _creak_. The room behind it was vast, littered with chairs and tables and wardrobes, with a high ceiling littered with broken rafters—and it was empty.

            “No. This wasn’t worth the journey.” Lysanor set her torch in a sconce and lowered her axe. “Where do you think they all went?”

            “I don’t know. If this place was a major hideout they can’t have cleared out that fast. I guess there just weren’t that many of them here in the first place.” She glanced down at her belt, where she’d tucked the letter, and scowled. “Ice-brain,” she added under her breath.

            “Might as well leave then, I suppose.” They were both quiet a moment as they looked around the empty room. As Lysanor turned to step toward the doorway, there was a quick flurry of noise and movement and a heavily armored man dropped, almost silently, from the rafters above her. She gasped, stumbled back—into another body. She whirled around. All around the room, bandits dropped from the ceiling, burst out of hidden doorways and wardrobes, gleaming silver weapons bared. Through the chaos and the mass of bodies Lysanor’s gaze found Aela, who was frozen in shock, eyes wide.

            A lithe woman with a face masked in war paint and a heavy wooden bow grasped in her hands dropped from the rafters onto the table in the middle of the room. Over the heads of the snarling, quivering crowd of Silver Hand, the woman grinned.

            “You won’t be leaving just yet.” She drew a silver-tipped arrow and let it fly, and all hell broke loose. Before Lysanor could even draw her weapon there were three men upon her. She flung herself backwards, reaching for her axe, only to tumble into the sword of the man in the doorway behind her. All she could register, for a moment, was pain and blood and the sound of Aela screaming in rage.

            She grabbed at the blade of the sword lodged between the plates of her armor and yanked, flinging it aside. A second sword just missed her side, and another arrow whizzed past her head. She lashed out with her axe— _thunk_ —then drew it back, splattering her face with blood. There didn’t seem to be any faces, any individuals, just a wall of bodies and searing silver weapons that screamed through her flesh. She swung out again, hit her target.

            But it wasn’t enough. Her axe slipped, just for a moment, from her fingers, clattered to the floor and was kicked aside. Her helmet was torn off and the man behind her slammed something into her back, hard. Lights exploded behind her eyes. Everything was deafeningly still for a moment—then agony burned through her scalp as fingers hooked into her hair and dragged her up by it.

            “Filthy bitch.” His breath was hot, sour against her ear. The hand still fisted in her hair yanked her head back and cool metal pressed against her naked throat. “You live like an animal, you die like one.”

            The panic that had seized her slowly loosened its grasp on her throat, replaced by an icy calm. There was only one thing she could do. Her limbs relaxed, head lolled back, clenched fists fell open. Her skin tightened and stretched, the pain welcome, familiar. She could hear the archer screaming “Kill her now! Before she turns!”—but it was too late. Warm, pulsing strength rushed through her veins, from her chest to the clawed tips of her fingers. She threw the man behind her into the wall, the _crack_ resonating in every stretching, twisting bone in her skull, and roared.

            The room was a writhing mass of color and movement. Every sound, every clash of a weapon or cry of pain, echoed violently through the blood that roared in her ears. As she lumbered into the crowd of men, her clawed foot slipped briefly on her abandoned axe. She stumbled forward, regained her footing on the cold stone floor, and lunged, claws bared and maw gaping. Her claws ripped through flesh quicker than any blade could, and what was left fell prey to the glistening, dripping shards of her teeth. She barely felt the resistance of heavy iron armor or the pain of metal embedded in her flesh; she was locked somewhere deep within her mind, her body lost to her.

She tore through the last man standing before her, tossing the crumpled remains of his body aside and lifting her head. The air was thick with the sharp, sour stench of blood, but even through the haze she could still smell life. She started toward the scent, then stopped in her tracks, her chest heaving. That scent was familiar. She inhaled again, deeply. It was choked by the blood and the metal, but even then she could recognize Aela’s scent. She said something, her words slow and distorted but her voice calm. It must be over.

            Lysanor took a deep breath, bracing herself against the wall and tensing every muscle in her body. It was always much more difficult to seize back control than to relinquish it to the blood. Slowly but surely, she clawed her way back into her body. Her bones cracked and snapped, rearranging themselves with agonizing slowness, and her flesh twisted beneath her skin. It felt as though her insides had been melted down into a malleable sludge and were being shaped back into something vaguely resembling a human. Her vision cleared, the buzzing in her ears subsided, and she was left huddled against the stone wall waiting for the claws and the fur to creep back under her skin.

            “An ambush.” Aela’s words were finally intelligible. It was strange how Lysanor’s hearing was infinitely sharper when she turned, yet she couldn’t seem to make out the simplest of sentences. “I can’t believe this. They set up an ambush. The vermin… They _dared_ …” She was quivering with rage as she looked over the carnage in the room.

            “Aela,” Lysanor tried to say, but the sound was lost somewhere in her throat. She tried again and Aela turned to her. “Wuuthrad?”

            “Oh!” she whispered. “It must be in here somewhere.” As Lysanor sat with her head between her knees and the sharp tips of her fingers buried in her hair, Aela set to work kicking aside bodies and rummaging through their knapsacks. A sudden jolt of pain seized Lysanor’s limbs and she squeezed her eyes shut with a whimper.

            “Lysa, look!”

            She raised her head, eyes still watering. Aela stood before her, a triumphant grin on her face and a gleaming shard of metal, about as big as her palm with her fingers splayed out, clasped in her hand. Even through the ache in her bones, Lysanor could feel a quiet warmth as she looked up at the piece of their history.

            “It was on that archer,” she explained. She stood before her, waiting for a response.

            “Good,” Lysanor said through clenched teeth. “Just give me a moment and we’ll leave.”

            Realization crossed over Aela’s face. “Right. Take your time.” She tucked the shard into the leather pack at her waist and wandered off, wading through the sea of bodies. Lysanor lowered her head again with a shallow breath. Her eyes burned when she closed them and her fingers twitched. This had always been the worst part—the recovery. The others could pull their claws under their nails without a moment’s hesitation and be back on their feet seconds after turning. She had never quite gotten the hang of it.

            Once most of the fur had melted away, she took a deep breath, waiting for tears to spring to her eyes. Her chest ached, but she rose to her feet anyway. On the other end of the room she could see Aela’s silhouette, leaning over a table. She staggered over the cooling bodies toward her.

            “Alright. I’m okay. We can leave now,” she said to Aela’s back. She didn’t respond, still hunched over with both palms splayed over the desk. “Aela?”

            “There’s a letter,” she said, an amused sort of lilt to her voice.

            “A letter?”

            Aela turned, the scrap of parchment clenched in her hands. “Listen to this. ‘They have been slaughtering our people all over Skyrim,’” she read aloud. “‘We need to deal with this… _infestation_ before it can grow any more than it already has.’” She laughed. “Look at that, Lysa! They’re going to hunt us.”

            Lysanor’s teeth ground together even as Aela chuckled to herself. An _infestation_ , like they were a swarm of insects preying on helpless crops. “Are they?” she murmured. She glanced over her shoulder at the bodies littered over the room, those precious silver weapons dull in the dim light. “But we are the hunters.”

           

            The quiet rap of Lysanor’s knuckles on wood echoed through the dark halls of the living quarters. No response. She glanced back at Aela, who gestured to try again. Before she could, though, a tired voice rang out from within the room.

            “Enter.”

            She creaked the door open and slipped inside. Kodlak was reclining in the well-worn, maroon chair that he seemed to spend so much of his time in, a heavy book balanced in his lap. He set the book on his bedside table and lifted his chin, evenly meeting her gaze.

            “Lysanor. Aela.” He waited, brows aloft and face open.

            “Harbinger, we have found another piece of Wuuthrad.” Aela stepped forward. Kodlak’s gaze dropped to the shard of steel in her hands and delight spread over his face.

            “You have? Wonderful!” he boomed, suddenly invigorated. He rose to his feet and took the shard from Aela’s grasp, gingerly running his fingers over the jagged edges and delicately carved designs. The heavy steel gleamed as if newly forged as the light of the dying fire trembled over it. “Where did you find it?”

            Lysanor’s eyes flickered over to Aela, but she didn’t even look at her. “An abandoned fort in Haafingar,” she said, without hesitation.

            “I see. Well, this is excellent.” A warm smile creased the corners of his eyes. “With every fragment that returns to us, we come a step closer to restoring Wuuthrad’s glory. You have done well, Aela.” He turned to Lysanor and added, “And you, Lysanor, prove your worth here with every passing day.”

            She bowed her head. “Thank you, Harbinger,” she murmured. She glanced up through her lashes and, for the first time since they’d stepped back into Jorrvaskr, found Aela looking back at her. She could see the same thoughts flitting behind her gleaming green eyes: they hadn’t quite proven their worth yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading.


	6. Rosewood

            Lysanor crept into Jorrvaskr as the sun was just beginning its descent, expecting warm, mead-flavored air, but was instead met with the same icy wind there had been outside—the doors that led into the training yard were propped wide open. She grumbled under her breath. Using her sword as a makeshift walking stick, she hobbled over to the stairs and down into the living quarters. She muttered a quiet greeting to Tilma on her way down the stairs.

            She paused in her quarters, dark and empty, to set down her shield and the knapsacks tied to her waist. When the leather purses and most of her weaponry was in her wooden chest or propped up against it, she very gently lowered herself into her bed with a shuddering sigh. Her legs twitched with some combination of pain and relief. It felt as though she hadn’t had a chance to sit down in weeks.

            Still perched on the edge of her bed, she reached into the bag closest to her and pulled out her worn old map, unraveling it and laying it flat against her thighs. She reached for the quill on her bedside table. Her finger slowly ran over the dots scattered over the plains of Whiterun, most with ink scratched over them. She stopped in the Pale—Fort Dunstad. Carefully, she crossed out the dot that had been marked on her map. She blew the ink dry, rolled the map up, and tucked it away before rising to her feet and slipping out of her quarters.

            “How’d it go?” Aela said without bothering to look up from the book that her quill was hovering over. By way of response, Lysanor tossed a sheet of parchment, folded into fourths, onto her desk. She glanced up. “So you found them, then?”

            “I did.”

            “Headed to Uttering Hills Cavern,” she murmured as she read through the note. “Where is that?”

            “Eastmarch.”

            “Hm.” She handed the parchment back to her, leaning back in her chair. “I smell a skeever. Don’t go alone.” Halfway through her sentence she was already beginning to put away her books, rising to her feet. “We can leave tomorrow.”

            “I’m not going anywhere until I get this fixed.”

            “Your axe? What’s wrong with it?” Aela said, eyeing it suspiciously.

            She gestured to the brutally gouged edge of the once-pristine dragonbone head. She’d had her shield knocked from her hands in the heat of battle, and her poor axe had suffered for it. Aela looked unimpressed. “It’ll shatter in a heartbeat. I can’t leave until Eorlund takes a look at it.”

            Aela sighed and rolled her eyes, mumbling something under her breath about “brutes” and their “big hulking weapons.” “Well, you’re out of luck. Eorlund’s been ill for a few days, and I don’t think he’ll be back at the forge any time soon.” She shrugged. “Just use something else.”

            “Something else? This is my axe!” Lysanor said, affronted. She’d slaughtered draugr and dragons alike with her axe. She wasn’t going anywhere without it. “I suppose I could go ask Adrianne.”

            “Well, whatever you do, make it quick,” she muttered, watching Lysanor gently tuck her axe back into her belt. “I haven’t been out there in weeks. I’m getting antsy just sitting here waiting for something to happen.”

            “I’ll let you know.” She stopped just outside of Aela’s quarters to stretch slowly, her joints cracking, and walked back down the hall.

            It was still bitterly cold outside, even as the sun shone down on the cobblestone path of Whiterun. She swept past the towering Gildergreen, the icy wind sending tiny pink blossoms swirling over her head like shards of snow, and down the steps into the Plains District. The marketplace was little more than a shifting mass of cloaked bodies—it was the height of day, after all—that she had to force her way through, clenching her own cloak around her. The sparser path that led away from the marketplace, toward the gates of Whiterun, lent a moment’s respite from the crowds of townspeople. As she neared the bridge leading out of the city, she was already beginning to feel the warmth of Adrianne’s modest forge.

            The town blacksmith was straddling her grindstone with a broad iron sword in hand, her foot working rapidly on the pedal. She seemed unfazed by the gruesome scraping sound or the sparks exploding from the edge of the blade. Lysanor stood behind her, waiting until the stone slowed and Adrianne let go of the sword for a moment to wipe her forehead with a grimy rag. Lysanor cleared her throat loudly. Adrianne didn’t even bother to turn around.

            “We’ve got some good pieces out here, if you’re looking to buy,” she said, gesturing to the weapon racks lined up against the wall. “There’s more inside. Take a look around.”

            “I think I’ll be alright.”

            This time, she turned around. After a moment’s shock, a pleasant smile spread over Adrianne’s face.

            “Well, well! Look who decided to come visit. Haven’t seen you in a while.” She racked the sword and combed her damp, gold-brown hair out of her face. “How are you, Dragonborn?”

            “I’m well,” she said, scratching at a sticky gash on her cheek. “I actually needed your help with something.” She drew her axe and balanced it in both hands, carefully holding it out. Adrianne took it and lightly touched the gouges in the sharp head of the axe with a frown.

            “Is this dragonbone?” She glanced back up at her. Lysanor nodded. “Hm. Did you talk to Eorlund Gray-mane? He might have more experience with this sort of thing.”

            “I would, but he’s been unwell.”

            “Oh, that’s right…” she murmured. “I guess I could try and grind it down for you.” She sat back down on the grindstone, holding the axe up to the sunlight. “I don’t have any dragonbone to fill it in with,” she said absently. “It’s hard to get a hold of any.”

            “It should be easier now.” Since Alduin’s disappearance, the dragons he’d raised had scattered about Skyrim, purposeless without a leader. Certainly they couldn’t have been too difficult to take down.

            “Well, not everyone can shout dragons still, Lysanor,” Adrianne said, shooting her a wry smile. “Speaking of dragons, I’ve heard there’s one that’s been bothering the folks in Ivarstead. People are wondering if the Dragonborn’s planning on going over there and taking care of it for them.”

            “I don’t really hunt dragons anymore,” Lysanor murmured.

            “Really? Seems like just a couple of months ago that was all you wanted to do.”

            She rubbed her brow, trying to work out how to best order her words. “They were a threat then,” she said finally. “Alduin was a threat. These dragons are a nuisance, but without Alduin…they’re not much of anything. The people can deal with them.”

            Adrianne nodded slowly, her eyes still on the axe. “I guess you’re right.” Suddenly, she added, “Do you need this right away? It might take me a little while to smooth this out, and I still need to finish that one over there.” She jerked her thumb at the lean iron sword she had been sharpening when Lysanor arrived.

            “No, I don’t.”

            “I’ll have it ready for you in a day or two, then.” She smiled. “Stay safe, Lysanor.”

            “And you.”

            Aela seemed to catch wind of it even before Lysanor when Adrianne finished working on her axe and had it sent back to Jorrvaskr. Barely a few minutes after she’d gotten the axe back, Aela was breathing down her neck, urging her to _hurry_ and _why did she need so much time to get ready anyway?_ She hadn’t lied when she said she was getting antsy sitting around in Jorrvaskr.

            “Why are you always in such a hurry to leave?” Lysanor grumbled as they walked out the gates of Whiterun into the frost-tinted Skyrim wilderness. “It’s like there’s something chasing you out of Jorrvaskr.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” Aela snapped, adjusting her quiver on her back. Lysanor fell silent—it was obvious when Aela was done with a conversation. They were quiet for a moment but for the crunching of snow beneath their feet. As they were crossing onto the broad stone path that wound through the Whiterun plains, Aela abruptly turned to her and asked, “Have you talked to Farkas lately?”

            “What?”

            “Farkas. Have you talked to him?”

            “Why do you ask?” When _was_ the last time she had spoken to him? She’d seen him around Jorrvaskr a few times these last few weeks, she was sure, but all she could recall was bidding him a good morning or evening as she passed by. She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d had a real conversation. To be honest, she couldn’t really remember the last time she’d had a conversation with any of her Shield-Brothers—other than Aela.

            Aela glanced over at her from the corner of her eye. “The other day he asked me if you were alright. He said he was worried about you.”

            “Worried?” she echoed.

            She nodded. “Apparently you’ve been ‘acting strangely.’ He said you’ve been too quiet.”

            “Oh, Gods,” Lysanor sighed. “I should have known he would realize something was off.”

            Aela scoffed. “That ice-brain? Really? I’m surprised he even noticed when you weren’t in Jorrvaskr.”

            “Enough, Aela,” Lysanor snapped. “It isn’t funny.”

            “My apologies,” she said drily, lifting her hands and splaying her fingers, palms out. “I’m just saying. You should probably have a word with him when we get back. Just to make sure he isn’t going to go around saying things he shouldn’t.”

            Lysanor muttered something in agreement, her mind already somewhere else. What was she going to say to him? She so hated being dishonest with Farkas, who probably hadn’t told a lie in his life. Perhaps if she told him the truth he would understand. Aela might have been right not to trust Vilkas, who wasn’t loyal to anyone but his brother, but Farkas was a different matter. She walked slowly, soothed for the moment.

 

            “Is that it?” Aela muttered. She glanced down at her map for a moment, then back up, her frown deepening as she came to the conclusion that yes, that was, in fact, _it._ Lysanor stood beside her, eyes trained on the jagged gash in the side of the bluff. By the opening of the cave, a handful of bedrolls and tents were scattered, along with the still-smoking remains of what must have been a pitiful fire. Aela will still glaring at the camp in the distance, as if the force of her stare would perhaps make it a little more impressive.

            “Good riddance. We’ll be done quickly.” Lysanor adjusted her pack on her waist and strode forward along the winding, stony path up the side of the cliff. After a moment, Aela’s footsteps, barely audible, followed her.

            Even in the quivering, watery light of dusk, they could see that the sparse camp outside the cave was empty. The fire, by that point, was out, but as she walked past Lysanor could still feel the warmth of the once-burning embers. They checked in the tents for good measure, then headed toward the opening in the towering walls of the mountain. The entrance to the cave looked as though the two halves of the bluff had struggled to hold together and had begun to split apart, like a tear in the seam of a tunic. Lysanor ducked her head in. It was pitch black.

            “Lantern?” she said, holding her hand behind her. A rough cord of metal was rested in her hand, and she brought it forward to light it. The disc of pale, orange-yellow light revealed a few feet’s worth of flat ground, then a sharp decline into the stony depths of the earth. She tied the lantern to her waist and, beckoning to Aela, crept inside.

            As they walked down the path the cold stone walls narrowed until they scraped along Lysanor’s armored hips as she walked. She gritted her teeth, moving as slowly as she could to keep from making that awful scraping sound of metal against stone. Aela, lean in her flimsy leather armor, rolled her eyes. “They’re going to hear us from a mile away, Lysa.”

            “Well,” she hissed, shifting sideways along the path, “there’s not much I can do, unless you want to turn back.” She was being terribly loud, though. The heavy wolf armor of the Circle was not built for being sneaky. Her metal boots scraped rhythmically along the ground, kicking pebbles aside, then suddenly—silence. She staggered back into Aela, who yelped.

            “Are you insane?” Aela snapped. Lysanor shook her head.

            “There’s a drop.”

            Aela leaned forward, peering over her shoulder as Lysanor held the lantern out. Sure enough, the path widened just enough for them to walk without their armor grinding against the walls, then collapsed into a broad nothing. She leaned forward, holding the lantern into the hole, but it barely illuminated more than the rough edges. Aela knelt to the ground and tossed a pebble into it. There was a brief silence, then a _plunk_.

            “Doesn’t sound too bad,” she said. “Let’s jump.”

            “I don’t like this, Aela.”

            “What, never been in a cave before? Not everything is nice and man-made, you know.” She leaned over and took the lantern from her hands. “It’s barely a drop at all. We’ll be able to climb back up in a heartbeat.” When Lysanor hesitated, she urged, “Go on. I’m right behind you.”

            Lysanor scowled. “If there are any Falmer down there…” she muttered under her breath, crouching and edging closer to the hole. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and jumped.

            She landed in an explosion of cold, oily smelling water that splashed into her boots and her armor. Following the sloping path out of the puddle, she turned and waited for Aela, who landed lightly with the lantern in hand a few moments later. She clipped the lantern back on her waist, ignoring Aela’s “was that so bad?” The path widened as they followed it deeper into the cave, finally opening into a broad stone clearing, perhaps twice or thrice the size of Jorrvaskr. A fire crackled in the middle of the makeshift room, which was littered with chairs and tables—many of which were occupied.

            “Nine, ten, eleven…” Aela said under her breath, her eyes flickering over every armored figure inside. “That’s a lot for a place this size.” Lysanor turned back to glance at her. “I noticed that when I went to that fort by Helgen, too. There are more of them. A _lot_ more.”

            “Nothing we can’t handle, right?”

            “No,” Aela agreed, after a moment’s hesitation. Lysanor secured the lantern by her waist and gently sheathed her sword.

            “Let’s clean this place out,” she muttered. She didn’t waste any time—by the time the first of the men inside had noticed them storming inside, her armor was already melting away and tufts of fur were sprouting up to replace it. She lunged at the first figure she saw, claws and teeth bared, ugly snarls tearing from her throat. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could hear Aela making the same sounds. Between the two of them, there was barely enough time for her heart to strum a few beats before they were left in a room of little more than gore. She slowly looked around and, when she couldn’t sense any movement other than Aela’s, forced the beast back into the recesses of her mind.

            Aela was wiping blood from her face when Lysanor’s vision cleared. She strode over to her, slipping her favorite dagger back into its sheath. “Are you alright?”

            “I’m fine.” The agony of turning had become less consuming the more she did it. These days, she barely even noticed the change in her body. Aela always asked her if she was alright, though. Perhaps it was the memory of the bloodied thrashing of Lysanor’s first turning, or perhaps it was simply force of habit—every time she turned back, Aela was there to check if she was still okay. “Was that everyone?”

            “Looks like it,” Aela muttered. She walked to one of the rickety tables that was littered about the room, sifting through piles of paper. Lysanor trailed over to the other end of the room. There wasn’t much of anything there, other than a few bodies that she’d hurled into the stone wall. She knelt by the crumpled remains of a man’s body to grab the roll of parchment tucked into his belt, when something caught her eye.

            “Aela.” She rose to her feet, lantern held out. In the darkness of the cavern she hadn’t even noticed a path leading out of the room they were in, shrouded in shadow. Aela strolled over to her. “Let’s go see what’s back there.” She looked back at her for approval; Aela nodded.

            The pathway was like the one leading into the cavern: damp and utterly devoid of lanterns or torches in sconces along the way. She held the lantern before her and, trailing a few feet behind her, Aela felt her way along the walls. She stopped dead when she heard voices, quiet conversation. One glance behind her told her Aela had heard it, too. They followed the sounds into a dimly lit opening in the side of the tunnel. She walked in—no point in being sneaky now. Both metal-clad men in the room whirled around, shock etched into their eyes and mouths.

            “There’s more?” Aela said with an exasperated sigh. The smug twist of her mouth made it clear, however, that she was quite pleased to have found more of them. “We thought your friends out there were all we had to deal with tonight. It’s a bother, isn’t it, Lysa?”

            Lysanor grunted by way of response. She wasn’t like Aela—she didn’t like playing with her prey, even when they were so wonderfully cornered and helpless like this. She was here to make sure they wouldn’t be a problem to her Shield-Siblings again, not to make conversation.

            The surprise, by that point, had melted from their faces, replied with that indignant anger that was so characteristic of the Silver Hand. The man closest to them, a lithe, fair-haired figure with narrow eyes and a heavy gash splitting his lip, drew his sword.

            “What’s the point, Sten?” the second man said coolly, a hulking metal warhammer balanced across his immense shoulders. “Why should we even bother fighting like real warriors? They certainly aren’t.”

            “What?” Lysanor growled. He raised his broad, dark brows at her.

            “We know very well all that you’re capable of,” he sneered. “All you lot can do is rip things apart like beasts, right? I’d bet every septim I have that you’ve never battled with a shred of honor in your entire life.”

            “Why don’t you say that again when your entrails are on the ground, worm,” Aela hissed, her smile long gone. Her fingers were already beginning to twitch, teeth bared. Lysanor could feel the fury in Aela’s eyes pound through her own veins, twist in her mind. The man laughed.

            “Go ahead and turn, bitch. I wouldn’t expect anything more from you.”

            Before they could move, Lysanor’s axe was in one hand and her sword in the other, both blades swinging. Her axe sliced through thin air and her sword collided with the thick wooden shaft of the warhammer with a sickening _crack_. Behind her, she could hear Aela snarling curses at the first man, her voice vicious but still human. Lysanor’s skin and nails and teeth were all the same, but she felt the same violent rush through her limbs that she always did when she turned, the painful, consuming need to grab something heavy and swing it as hard as she could. The head of warhammer swung just past her shoulder and as the man recovered from the momentum of the blow, she flung herself forward. He toppled onto his back with Lysanor atop him, her knees on either side of his chest. She dropped the axe and wrapped both fists around the hilt of her sword. Hurling the entire weight of her body into the strike, she drove the blade of the sword into the palm of his outstretched hand, relishing in his howl. She rose to her feet and grabbed the abandoned warhammer. The muscles in her arms screamed in protest just as she lifted the thing over her head, but it didn’t matter. She slammed it down onto his head with all the force she could muster, blood spattering over her face. She drew the hammer over her head and brought it down again, and again, and again. Her throat burned and she was blinded, for a moment, by the blood and the anger. It was a few seconds or a few years before she could hear Aela’s voice through the roaring in her ears.

            “Lysa. Lysa, stop.” Aela’s voice was gentle, but she grasped her shoulder firmly. “He’s dead.”

            Lysanor turned. Her heart was still beating violently against the inside of her chest, her vision blurry. She could barely breathe. A few feet away from her she could see the body of the fair-haired man that had drawn his weapon first, his throat cleanly slit and his eyes empty. Her eyes flickered back to the mess of shattered bone and flesh before her. The warhammer slipped from her fingers and clattered loudly against the stone floor.

            “Did you hear what he said?” she whispered, ashamed by the tinge of desperation in her tone. “You heard, didn’t you?”

            Aela was silent. She looked up at her, but Aela’s attention was elsewhere, her eyes narrowed. “Do you hear that?”

            Lysanor slowed her breathing long enough to listen. Sure enough, she could hear a quiet rumbling that seemed to be growing steadily louder. Aela’s face remained contorted in confusion for a moment, then her eyes snapped wide open. “We have to leave,” she whispered.

            “What?”

            “We have to go! Come on, grab your things!” She grabbed the hilt of Lysanor’s sword and pulled hard, staggering back when it sprung free. The tip had been embedded several inches into the cracked stone floor. Lysanor knelt and picked up her axe, and Aela ran back out into the pathway without another word. She could still hear the rumbling—it sounded like it was coming from everywhere at once.

            “Wait, what about the papers?” she called as they sprinted back through the first clearing. They didn’t usually leave without going through whatever pieces of parchment were lying around the lair. There was more often than not something useful there, a hint about where their next slaughter was going to be.

            “Leave them!” Aela barked. In the broad, damp tunnel that had brought them into the depths of the earth, Lysanor felt the loud quivering of the cavern, and when she looked up, she saw dust and little shards of rock crumbling over them. _Oh, Gods_. “Come on, come on!” Aela urged, crouching in the puddle they had dropped into. She linked the fingers of both hands together and held them from her body, her eyes wide.

            Her foot landed nimbly on Aela’s joined hands and her Shield-Sister flung her upwards with all the strength she could muster. Lysanor grabbed onto the edge of the hole with both hands, hauling herself up onto the ground. When she’d caught her breath, she leaned down and held her arm through the hole to drag Aela through with her. Seconds after Aela had scrambled up, a series of loud _thuds_ echoed through the cavern, each impossibly closer to them. “Go, go!” Aela urged. She could only move so quickly through the narrow stone pathway, though, and her armor scraped painfully against the walls. The scent of dust and damp, crumbling stone seemed everywhere. The entire pathway was shaking violently now with every new _thud_. As the path sloped upwards and Lysanor started to smell the cool, fresh scent of outside, Aela threw herself into Lysanor’s back with all her might and flung her out the entrance, onto the damp soil. She tumbled out behind her, and seconds later, the ceiling of the entire pathway collapsed into it, closing it off.

            “Oh, Gods,” Aela wheezed, splaying out on the soil. “Gods. I hate caves.”

            “Why did that happen?” Lysanor whispered. She stared at what had, seconds ago, been an opening in the bluff.

            “Who knows? Maybe the Gods are punishing us for something. Do you have the water?”

            Lysanor untied the lantern, which had cracked in the chaos and was now casting light in odd patterns over the ground, and set it down, then handed the leather costrel to Aela. She sat up, muttering her thanks and taking a few quick gulps. As she handed it back, her eyes dropped to Lysanor’s strangely illuminated chest. “Where’s your necklace?”

            “My necklace?” She automatically reached up to grope at her throat, but her fingers didn’t close around the rough thread that she was used to. Eyes wide, she scrabbled at her neck and chest in vain. “Oh, Gods,” she whispered. “My amulet. My amulet of Talos. It’s—” Her head snapped up and her eyes focused on where the entrance to the cavern had been. She could vaguely remember a tightness around her neck, then a _snap_ when Aela had flung her up through that hole. She hadn’t thought anything of it—she was too busy worrying about the falling boulders. “I left it in there,” she said dumbly.

            Aela watched her, quiet. After a moment, she murmured, “I’m sorry, Lysa.” Aela was far from the most pious woman in Jorrvaskr, but even she knew how Lysanor had treasured her amulet.

            “My mother gave me that amulet,” Lysanor whispered.

            “Well…we can always get you a new one. I bet Fralia Gray-mane has one for sale back in Whiterun.”

Lysanor’s eyelashes fluttered, and she tilted her head. “Of course. I’ll just get a new one. It’s alright,” she said, not entirely sure who she was reassuring. “We should start moving.”

            “Alright.” Aela’s voice was hesitant, but she stood, her expression unreadable.

 

            The journey back to Jorrvaskr was several weeks long, but to Lysanor it seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. As they wandered through ice-laden forests her mind kept drifting back to her lost amulet. Her neck ached without its heft weighing her down, her hands were incomplete without its worn, cold metal edges digging into the flesh of her palm. She found herself groping in vain at her neck throughout the day, as though her fingers couldn’t quite believe it was gone, either.

            Aela was undoubtedly eager to give her some space, and once they stepped through Jorrvaskr’s doors she swept off to her room, leaving Lysanor to wander about, lost. She slipped into her quarters. Her mind was still numb as she lowered herself onto her bed and slipped off her helmet. Her gauntlets found a home in her bedside chest, her chest plate was propped up against the wall, and she rose to her feet again, not sure what else to do. The instant she stumbled out into the hallway, she ran headfirst into an immense, metal-plated body. As she staggered back, Farkas grabbed her shoulder and held her steady, a sheepish grin crossing his face.

            “Sorry.”

            Everything seemed to snap into focus. She took a deep breath, looking up at him. Farkas. She was supposed to go talk to Farkas. She was supposed to reassure him.

            “No, I—I should have paid attention to where I was going. I’m sorry.” The comforting pressure of his hand fell from her shoulder. “I was just looking for you.”

            “You were?” he said. Despite the nonchalant way he crossed his arms and shifted his weight onto one leg, Lysanor could hear the hopeful lilt to his voice.

            “Let’s go sit down inside.”

            The darkness of her quarters didn’t seem quite as suffocating when they stepped back in. Farkas drew a chair and sat across her bed as she lit the few lanterns hanging on the walls. In the new, dim light, she could see that his armor was spattered with fresh blood and grime. She took a seat on her bed.

            “Did you just get back from a job?” she asked.

            “Aye. You did too, didn’t you? You and Aela?”

            She nodded slowly.

            “Thought so. You haven’t been around much.” He sighed, leaned back in his chair. “Seems like we don’t get to talk much anymore, do we?”

            “No,” Lysanor murmured. “We don’t.” Guilt coiled in the pit of her stomach. She’d missed him so very dreadfully when she’d left. Now she was back, and she didn’t think she’d even once bothered to sit down and have a drink with him. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be,” he replied with a casual shrug. “Things have been busy lately. Even I know that much.”

            “I know, but—”

            “I got you something,” he announced abruptly, before she could keep trying to apologize. She didn’t push. Instead, she watched as he reached into one of the satchels at his waist. “We passed one of those Khajiit markets on our way back. Thought you might want something.” He finally found what he was looking for and held it out to her. She took the small glass jar and ran her fingers over the sides. A smile tugged at her lips when she unscrewed the lid and looked inside.

            “War paint,” she murmured. He slung his arm over the back of the chair, leaning back with a smug grin.

            “Aye.”

            “I’m never going to use this, you know,” she chuckled, smoothing the cool, slippery paint over her fingertips. It was the smoky grey of a dying fire. “Not my color.” She gestured to her face, hoping that the crimson streaks of paint had survived the trek back from Eastmarch.

            “You never know. Maybe someday it’ll come in handy.” He smiled at her, and the corners of his eyes, smeared with war paint as dark as his black hair, crinkled. She scoffed.

            “Please.” Even though her words were teasing, she gave the jar a fond caress before turning to put it away. She opened the drawer by her bed and reached into the back, pulling out a small wooden box.  When she was still the whelp of the Companions, however many years ago that had been, Farkas had once given her a gold ring that he’d found on a job and couldn’t sell. He hadn’t expected her to be absolutely delighted, but she was; when she had barely a few dozen septims to her name, every gift was like treasure. He’d taken to bringing back little trinkets for her when he happened across them in his travels—a tarnished necklace, a hair comb with a few gemstones missing, a jar of sweet-smelling beeswax lip stain—all objects that perhaps weren’t of much value. She treasured them anyway.

            Lysanor set the glass jar down into the box before nestling the whole thing in the back of her drawer, then turned back to him. “Thank you, Farkas." He smiled and glanced away, as though he wanted to brush off her gratitude, but he knew better.

            “Of course.” As his eyes flickered over her face, his smile began to fade. “Lysa, I know this isn’t my business,” he said, “but…are you alright?”

            “Alright?” she echoed. “What do you mean?”

            “Just…you’re different lately. Always distracted and tired and…I dunno. Seems like something’s wrong.”

           The soft warmth that had come with his gift and his smile trickled away. She’d already decided, hadn’t she? She was going to tell him. She had to. “There isn’t anything wrong,” she began, glancing up at him hesitantly. Despite herself, her mind snapped back to the cave. She thought of how she’d felt when she turned, of how easily she’d ripped through flesh, of the blood and brain matter spattered over the icy stone. She looked into his open, kind face. She couldn’t imagine how it would change if she told him.

            “Things have just been hard since Skjor,” she whispered. She couldn’t meet his gaze, but she could almost feel the sympathy filling in his eyes. He set his palm on her knee.

            “I know,” he said. “It’s hard the first time one of your Shield-Brothers dies. But it’ll get easier, Lysa. Promise.”

            She nodded, swallowing hard around the lump in her throat. She was sure he would call her bluff when he ducked his head to look into her eyes, but he seemed to take her strained expression as grief of a different sort.

            “If you need anything, I’m here.”

            “I know you are.” His hand was warm, rough beneath hers. “Thank you.”

            For a few seconds, it was quiet. Then Farkas slipped his hand from hers and rose to his feet, picking up the shield he’d set down on his way in. “I should get to my quarters. Come find me if you need somethin’.” He brushed his fingertips over the top of her head in a sort of farewell as he walked by. She watched him go, her head sinking into her hands.

            “Bye,” she whispered into her palms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a while! been traveling and jet lag's a bitch. thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed it.


	7. Wisteria

            Word seemed to get around that Lysanor was “under the weather,” according to Ria, and the others went out of their way to avoid her in the next few days. Lysanor wasn’t sure if she should blame Aela or Farkas for the rumor. She couldn’t complain, though—she needed the few days to herself. The morning after she and Aela got back, she wandered down to the market to see if Fralia Gray-mane did, in fact, have an amulet of Talos for sale. She didn’t. It didn’t matter anyway—the thought of replacing her amulet so callously, as if it was nothing more than a meaningless trinket, hurt her heart. The empty granite eyes of Talos seemed to burn into her as she walked back up the steps to Jorrvaskr.

            The days crept past without much notice. Aela didn’t seek her out for another job, and Lysanor didn’t bother to ask. After the slaughter at Uttering Hills Cavern, it felt like they’d earned a break. She busied herself with chores and paperwork while her wounds healed.

            When the letters and requests were all sorted and there was nothing else to do but set out to deliver them, Lysanor headed down the hallway with her arms full of folded papers. When was the last time she’d done this? It seemed a lifetime ago. She kicked Aela’s door a few times in lieu of knocking. When the door creaked open, she slipped inside and dropped half the papers on Aela’s desk as her Shield-Sister watched.

            “Is this what you’ve been up to?” she muttered, walking over to her and picking up one of the papers. She gave it a distasteful look and let it flutter from her fingers back onto the desk.

            “We can’t always be out looking for the Silver Hand, Aela.”

            Aela sighed, dropped into her chair. “You’re probably right,” she conceded. “It’s good that you’ve kept things under wraps, anyway. We wouldn’t want anyone to bring it up during tomorrow’s meeting.”

            “Meeting? What meeting?”

            She glanced up at her, brows aloft. “Didn’t you hear? Kodlak’s called a meeting tomorrow night in the Underforge.”

            “Oh.” It had been a long while since the Circle’s last conference. They used to hold regular meetings just to discuss the state of the guild, but they hadn’t met in months, not since before Lysanor left for the Throat of the World. She supposed it just hadn’t felt right convening without Skjor. “What for? Just a general meeting?”

            “I don’t know. Vilkas seems to think it’s about Skjor’s room, but I don’t know why Kodlak would call a whole _meeting_ over something like that.”

            Lysanor glanced over her shoulder through the still half-open door. Skjor’s room was just across the way, the door firmly shut. She didn’t think anyone had been in there since he had died—save, perhaps, for Aela. “What about his room?”

            “Giving it to you.”

            Her eyes snapped back to Aela, who was still flicking through the papers. “What? Wh—Why am I—why?”

            Aela sighed quietly. “I suppose they just think it’s silly for you to still be sleeping with the whelps.” She shrugged, eyes down. The corners of her mouth were tense with something more than disinterest. “It’s good, I guess. This way it’s easier for you to sneak out without being noticed.”

            “Right.” Lysanor cleared her throat. “Well, I—I should go deliver the rest of these,” she said, holding up the papers in her arms. Aela nodded. “Good night.”

            “Good night,” Aela muttered. As she stepped out of the room, Lysanor couldn’t help but glance over at the room opposite Aela’s one more time. It horrified her, but she found herself wandering over to it, shifting the letters in her hand to reach for the doorknob. It was unlocked. The door swung open silently, leaving her staring into a heavy, imposing mass of darkness. Her throat tightened. The air seemed to shiver with the flavor of death.

            She stumbled back, her heels catching in the rough carpet and her breath seizing in her chest. Her ears were ringing. The once-comforting warmth of the living quarters suddenly seemed suffocating, like heavy furs weighing over her head and her face. She staggered up the stairs and out the doors, doubling over and breathing hard in the icy night air.

            She could breathe now, but her head was still spinning. She lowered herself onto the first cold stone step and put her head between her knees. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. Skjor’s room…she was going to be sick. How was she supposed to work, to _sleep_ with a constant reminder that her Shield-Brother was dead, dead, dead? She shivered.

            Without really knowing what she was doing, she rose to her feet and stumbled down the cobblestone path. Somewhere along the way a Whiterun guard murmured a greeting to her, but she couldn’t bring herself to respond. In hardly a few moments she found herself in the Plains District, pushing open the door to the Bannered Mare.

            Whiterun’s biggest tavern was as loud and boisterous as ever, despite the hour—or perhaps because of it. She pushed through the throng of sweaty bodies and slumped down into a spare barstool by the counter, ignoring the crooning melody of Mikael, the bard. A few moments later a large woman in a honey-scented green dress bustled by, arms full of filthy flagons. She dumped them behind the counter and was in the process of cleaning one with an even filthier rag when she noticed Lysanor there. She smiled, leaning forward.

            “Lysanor! How nice to see you, lass. How are you?”

            “I’m fine, Hulda.” Hulda was a sweet Nord woman with a broad, ruddy face, wispy auburn hair, and the brightest smile in all of Whiterun. She was like a bottle of spiced mead herself—warm, comforting. Even her presence couldn’t ease the knot in Lysanor’s stomach.

            Hulda leaned over the counter, bracing her elbows against the wood. “So, what are you looking for? Food, drink?” She raised her brow, a smile curving her lips. “Not board, I hope?”

            Lysanor managed a weak smile. Years ago, when she first arrived in Whiterun, she had stayed at the Bannered Mare for quite a while before Hulda suggested she look for board with the Companions. “Just a drink.”

            “Fair enough.” Hulda turned, reaching for a fresh bottle of mead.

            “Wait—Hulda. Do you have anything…stronger?”

            She could see surprise etched in Hulda’s brow and the lines of her mouth—Lysanor had never been much of a drinker—but she put the mead back without a question. Instead, she opened an unmarked bottle at the bottom of the shelf, sliding it across the counter. Lysanor lifted it in a silent toast and took a quick gulp. It was so bitter it made her cough and her throat burn, but she relished the sting that mead could never really offer. Mikael’s music paused, and a pair of gruff, drunk men on the other end of the tavern set to pummeling one another. Lysanor closed her eyes, sufficiently distracted by the noise and the burn of the alcohol. She downed the rest of the bottle and gestured to Hulda for another.

            As she drank, her mind wandered back to that room. Was it really right for her to be taking Skjor’s room as if he’d never even been there? As far as she knew, most of his things were still in there, untouched. She didn’t think Aela had been in the mood for organizing her dead lover’s belongings. It felt wrong—like she was replacing him. Skjor had been Kodlak’s right hand man. She couldn’t be him.

            But then again, every room in Jorrvaskr had once belonged to someone that was now dead. When the other members of the Circle moved into their rooms, however long ago that must have been, they must have been replacing someone who had been lost, hadn’t they? No matter how she tried to rationalize it, the thought still put a sour taste in her mouth and an ache in her heart. It wasn’t right.

            She sighed, rubbing her temple. Gods, did her head hurt—almost as much as the rest of her. She took another drag from the bottle in her hands, emptying it and grimacing at the taste for what must have been the fortieth time. As she set it down, her eyes were drawn to the empty bottles in front of her. Two, three, four…four bottles of whatever Hulda had given her that made her eyes water and her mouth burn, but she didn’t feel any different. Nothing hurt any less, not her head nor her heart. Her vision seemed perfectly normal. She wasn’t even tipsy.

            Lysanor’s stomach sank as the gears in her mind began to turn. There was always plenty of mead at Jorrvaskr, and the twins drank enough for all of Whiterun combined, but she had never, ever seen either of them drunk, even as Athis or Torvar made utter fools of themselves after a long night of drinking. She had long since learned that the beast blood killed off any disease weaker than itself, and that it kept them from ever having a decent night’s sleep. Perhaps that wasn’t all that it kept them from doing. Her heart began to strum a panicked rhythm against her ribs. What was she supposed to do if she couldn’t even let the drink take away her thoughts for a night?

            Her breathing was shallow and unsteady as she walked back to Jorrvaskr, utterly sober but somehow not quite in her right mind. She thought she’d put a few coins on the counter as she left, but she couldn’t really remember, somehow. She’d just needed to leave. But where was she to go? It was as overwhelming to be inside Jorrvaskr as it was to be outside it. For once, her home was of no comfort to her.

            She was already out of breath by the time she reached the living quarters, even though she certainly hadn’t run there—at least, she didn’t think she had. The walk back to Jorrvaskr already seemed wholly forgettable compared to the turmoil in her mind.

            “Lysa?”

            Her eyes fluttered open, focused on the figure at the base of the stairs. Had he been upstairs? She hadn’t even noticed him coming down. “Farkas.”

            He strode toward her, for once without the _clunk_ of metal armor—he was in plain clothes. She could see the concern in his eyes as he came to a stop before her. She took a deep, shuddering breath. He smelled like copper and honey.

            “Lysa?” he said again, hesitation in his voice and his eyes. “Are you okay?”

            The tattoo of her heart still drummed in her ears, barely there and deafening at the same time. It seemed to urge her on. She reached up, just barely taking in the shock on his face as she twined his long, dark hair around her fingers, and pressed her lips flush against his. A rush of sensation flooded her, and the roar in her mind went silent. The scrape of his beard against her lip, the hot puff of his breath on her cheek, the ashy, honey-sweet taste of his mouth—oh, it felt good. Nothing had felt good in a long time.

            She drew back, slow and measured, and touched her lip with the tips of her fingers. Her skin tingled pleasantly. When she looked back up, Farkas’s eyes were wide and his face was flushed.

            “What are you doing?” he whispered, his brows drawn together in something between confusion and anguish. She took his hand in hers and placed it above her heart, curling her fingers firmly around his knuckles. For a moment, she trusted him with every inch of her being.

            “I need you,” she said, the words strange and unfamiliar on her tongue. He stared at her. “Farkas, take me to your bed.”

            His eyes flickered frantically over her face as if searching for any hint that she might be joking. The bulge in the heavy column of his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

            “Okay.”

 

            “Coming upstairs, Lysa?”

            Lysanor turned her head enough so that she could see Ria out of the corner of her eye, hovering in the doorway of their quarters in her jittery way. Her helmet was tucked under one arm, the other grasping the hilt of her broadsword. She added, “I thought maybe we could train for a little while, at least until Vilkas wakes up.”

            “Maybe,” she agreed softly. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

            “Alright. Don’t be too long,” Ria said, shooting her a bright smile before she whirled off. It took a few moments’ effort before she could pull herself to her feet. A fresh washbasin waited for her in the corner of the room, the water long since cooled. She braced her hands on either side of the washbasin and leaned forward. The water wasn’t clear enough to reveal the spots along her mouth and her throat that had been scraped raw, but she could feel the sting. She drew her fingertips over her lips, her neck, remembering the way his teeth had felt there.

            Suddenly, as if jerking awake from sleep, she realized what she was doing and let her hands drop. What was she thinking? What had she _done_? She cupped the cold water in her palms and splashed it, almost angrily, over her face. Her reflection shattered like glass.

            As she fastened her armor, though, her mind drifted back to him, over and over. Every time her fingers brushed against her skin she remembered how his hands had felt there, bigger and warmer and rougher than hers. The shouting in her mind quieted as her thoughts wandered. She swallowed. If she closed her eyes and pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, she could still taste him on her lips.

            She was beginning to dread that training session with Ria. It couldn’t have been long before Vilkas woke up, but she couldn’t focus. How could she let Ria down now, though? She hadn’t even spoken to her, let alone trained, in a long time.

            It took her a few moments to work up the courage to step out into the living quarters. Farkas had still been in his bed when she left his room a few hours ago, but he was a notoriously early riser. He was her best friend—her only friend. What if she bumped into him in the hallway and they couldn’t look each other in the eye and nothing was ever the same between them again? No more secret smiles over supper, no more trinkets empty of any worth other than sentiment, no more distant jobs where they got distracted halfway there and ended up getting lost. The best thing to do would just be to forget about everything. But, oh, how could she think that now that she knew how his fingers, his tongue felt on her skin? It was easier before she knew. Her breath puffed out in a heavy sigh that sent a few loose tendrils of her hair fluttering.

            Ria was already slicing at one of the battered training dummies, dim sunlight glinting off of her sword, when Lysanor wandered into the training yard. She stood in silence, shifting her axe in her hands. Absorbed in her training as she was, it took Ria a little while to notice that Lysanor was standing behind her. When the gleam of her wolf armor caught her eye, she dropped the sword and turned around. The tense, almost-angry expression that had twisted her face faded away.

            “Hey! You came up after all,” she said, beaming. Lysanor smiled back.

            “I said I would, didn’t I?”

            “You looked so tired,” Ria shrugged. “I thought you were going to go back to bed.”

            “Well, I’m here,” she said simply. “Now, do you want to train, or not? The sun is coming up. Vilkas will be up here before you know it.”

            The smile dropped from Ria’s face at Vilkas’s name. “Right, right,” she said. She grabbed her helmet from where she’d propped it up on the table and set it over her head. “Let’s go.”

            They stood at either end of the training yard, broad, empty space between them. Lysanor had never really learned to use the greatsword—she just wasn’t strong, or big, enough—but even then she could tell something was off with Ria’s stance. No wonder she was struggling. “Move your feet farther apart,” she called, gesturing with her free hand. Ria glanced down and quickly obeyed. At Lysanor’s wave of approval, she raised her weapon and charged.

            Ria had clearly spent a little too much time training with dummies—her strikes were far too slow to even nick Lysanor, and she still moved as though she was holding a weapon far lighter than the one in her hands. That sword was dragging her down. Lysanor let her get a few blows in, deflecting each with her shield, before she lashed out and knocked the sword out of her hands. Ria cursed.

            “Gods damn it,” she huffed, ripping off her helmet. “You’re worse than Vilkas.”

            “Vilkas is slower than me,” Lysanor muttered. Vilkas’s quick, elegant footwork was to be admired, but that didn’t change the fact that he was larger than her and his weapon was thrice the size of hers. “You need to block faster if you want to use a weapon that size, Ria.” She didn’t bother offering her own opinion on her weapon—that Ria should toss that gargantuan hunk of metal and use a mace or a shortsword instead.

            “Okay. Let’s try again,” Ria sighed. Her bright brown eyes disappeared behind the helmet again and she drew the sword, backing up into the yard. Lysanor focused on the scrape of metal against metal that she could feel in her bones, on the wet pain of Ria’s sword against her skin, and found that her mind had gone pleasantly still. She didn’t have the time to let her thoughts wander, not when she had to worry about timing her blows just right for Ria to block them.

            She was so focused on the battle that she didn’t even notice when the door to the training yard opened and someone stepped out. Heavy boots _clunk_ ed against the stone and out of the corner of her eye, she caught broad shoulders, wolf armor and long, dark hair. Her stomach plummeted, as did her axe. Ria took advantage of her distraction to hook her blade in the curve of the axe and hurl it aside.

            “Ha! You’re dead,” she said triumphantly, pointing her sword at Lysanor’s throat. Lysanor’s heart pounded as she turned her head.

            “Off your game today, Lysanor,” Vilkas remarked, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought you knew better than to get distracted like that.”

            Lysanor swallowed hard. Her heart was still in her throat. “I…guess I’m just tired,” she whispered. Ria lowered her sword, her eyes gleaming with pride. She picked up Lysanor’s axe from where she’d flung it and handed it back to her. Lysanor slipped it into its sheath without a word.

            “That’s probably it,” Ria agreed, still grinning from ear to ear as she glanced at Vilkas. “You had a busy night, didn’t you, Lysa?”

            “What?”

            “The letters?” Ria said, her voice now hesitant. “I saw all the notes that were on your desk last night. It must have taken you all night to go through them.”

            Oh. That was right—the letters. Now that she thought about it, she remembered stopping by her quarters to dump the rest of the letters on her desk before she swept off to the Bannered Mare. “Right,” she muttered. “I was busy.”

            “Letters? Did you drop any off in my room?” Vilkas said, raising his brows. His voice took on that tone where it was clear that he knew the answer, but he was going to ask the question anyway, and none of the responses that came to her mind were right.

            “I didn’t finish,” she replied. “I’ll get them done by today.”

            Vilkas offered no response other than an incline of his head. He shot her one last hard, unreadable look before turning to Ria. “Shall we get started?”

            “Yeah! Let’s go,” she said earnestly. That bright smile was back on her face. “Thanks, Lysa,” she added as Lysanor began to back away. “I’ll see you at suppertime?”

            “Of course.” Lysanor was already forgotten, though. Ria’s brilliant eyes were focused on Vilkas, gleaming with a hint of challenge, and Lysanor faded into the background. Keeping to the walls, she crept back downstairs and into her own quarters. Sure enough, now that Ria had brought it up Lysanor could see the once-neat pile of parchments flung over her desk. She sank into her chair, eager to let the monotony of the work distract her.

            The sorting had already been done the night before, though—all that was left was to make the letters look neat and deliver them, but she didn’t have the courage to make her way down to the twins’ end of the living quarters. Instead she paced in her room, her stomach twisting at every set of footsteps she heard echoing in the hall. She was loathe to admit she was nervous, but she was, and it was starting to make her stomach hurt.

            She slipped past Athis and Njada, locked in another empty argument, and out to the open cobblestone of the Wind District. The sweet sting of the wind on her skin and the sun in her eyes soothed her. Other than an occasional greeting or nod of the head, no one bothered her as she wandered about Whiterun. When she’d left town the year prior to fulfill her duties as Dragonborn, she’d found herself back in Whiterun every few weeks, hiding possessions and destinies in the otherwise-abandoned Breezehome. The locals quickly learned not to ask questions when she was stalking about Whiterun with her head down. She wasn’t up to anything that suspicious these days, but old habits died hard.

            The day was only so long. Before she knew it the sun was beginning to creep past the horizon and she had wandered back to Jorrvaskr, her stomach twisting as she stood outside the door. _Enough!_ She was a Companion. She was a _Nord_. She didn’t stand outside doors fretting about what was behind them—she stormed in. Clenching her jaw, she did just that.

            Despite her brave thoughts, she found herself scanning the living quarters for any sign of him. Ria, chattering with a bored-looking Torvar; Athis and Njada, _still_ arguing; Vilkas, drinking alone, a few feet away from Aela. No Farkas. The momentary relief that she felt at his absence hardened into a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach. He always supped with his brother. Was he avoiding her? Gods, what was she going to—

            “Lysa!”

            Ria waved her over to the table. She grinned when Lysanor took the seat beside her, oblivious to her internal panicking.

            “I thought you’d never arrive. Guess what I did today?” She didn’t give Lysanor the time to ask what she’d done today before she barreled on. “I felled Vilkas! Knocked the sword right out of his hands! He said he was proud of me, but I think he’s still salty about it.” She pointed over at Vilkas in his dark corner of the room. “I was just telling Torvar about it.”

            Torvar grunted, ripping the meat off of the drumstick he was eating with his teeth. His bloodshot blue eyes remained trained on her as he chewed. “So where’s the Dragonborn been today? Haven’t seen you around much.”

            “I had some business around town.”

            “I’d kill to get out of here. Just for a little while,” Torvar muttered. “Farkas thinks I always need to be around for training.” He mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “oaf.”

            “It’s just because you’re new. I have to train all day, too, you know. The Circle just wants us to be prepared for when we go out on jobs.”

            Torvar rolled his eyes and stood, grabbing his mead on the way out. Ria seemed unfazed. “He’s mean when he drinks,” she remarked. She leaned over and stole a slice of rich bread from his plate. “Anyway, like I was saying. I knew I could get him if I could just get that sword out of his hands for a second…”

            Lysanor nodded, only half-listening to Ria’s story. Eventually Ria seemed to wrap up the tale and, still beaming with pride, stood and stretched. “Well, I think I’ve trained enough for the rest of the month. I’m going to bed,” she announced. “Coming?”

            “Yeah. Sure.” She left behind her barely-touched plate of food and wandered behind Ria, her mind still somewhere else. Aela delicately cleared her throat as they passed her.

            “Lysa?”

            She glanced back at Aela, shrouded in shadows that made her look sinister where Vilkas just looked sullen. Aela waited for Ria to disappear down the stairs before murmuring, “The meeting?”

            The meeting. How had it slipped her mind when she’d spent all of the last night worrying about it? “Right. I’ll just…go drop some of my things off downstairs.”

            Aela seemed satisfied with the response, leaning back into her shadows. Downstairs, Lysanor crept into her quarters but sat heavily on her bed instead of going to her chest. She took a few deep breaths, gathering her courage. Thank the Gods that Njada and Ria were already absorbed in an argument about the merits of hair combs—she couldn’t explain herself to Ria one more time. She waited for the lights to be blown out before she quietly slipped out the door.

            She hadn’t been to the Underforge in a long while. The concealed chamber had an exit that led straight out into the wild plains of Whiterun, and she’d used it the few times she’d gone hunting with Aela or Skjor, but she hadn’t been hunting in months—years. With the frequency of the Circle meetings trickling into nothing, there was no reason to be in the Underforge.

            Though she tried to hurry, she wasn’t the first person there. Aela already lounged by one of the empty altars nestled in the crevices of the stone wall, with Vilkas on the other end of the circular chamber. They nodded to her as she took her usual spot across from the entrance.

            “What’s taking your brother so long, Vilkas?” Aela said irritably. Her eyes followed the long, slender fingers of moonlight that shone through the gaps in the stone walls, and the light from the torch-fire flickered over her face. “Ice-brain.”

            As if on cue, the heavy stone slab that served as a door slid open, scraping against the ground. Kodlak entered first, his gait uneven despite the walking stick clenched in his fist. Farkas followed with one hand grasping Kodlak’s arm.

            “Thank you,” Kodlak murmured. Farkas let his hand drop and wordlessly took his place next to his brother. Lysanor swallowed hard.

            Kodlak nodded as he looked around. “Good. Everyone is present.”

            “One of us isn’t,” Aela muttered, unable to mask the bitterness in her voice. Kodlak’s eyes flickered over to her.

            “We all feel Skjor’s absence, lass. More than you realize. But I think that we have postponed this meeting long enough.”

            Aela was silent.

            Kodlak cleared his throat. “Let’s begin,” he announced. “Farkas. How is training coming along?”

            “It’s alright,” Farkas said with a shrug. The sound of his voice sent shivers running up Lysanor’s spine. She gritted her teeth and tightened her grip on her forearms until her nails bit into her flesh. “Torvar’s been complaining about how he doesn’t get to go on jobs, but he won’t train when I tell him to. And Ria’s still practicing with the greatsword.”

            “Is she any better at it yet?” Aela asked.

            “No. And she won’t listen to anyone that tells her to pick a different weapon.” Farkas’s gaze found hers for a moment over the heavy granite font in the center of the room. Clearly, he’d overheard her attempts to coax a shortsword into Ria’s hands.

            “If her heart is set on the greatsword, let her use it. She is still young. She has plenty of time to learn.”

            “Yes, Harbinger.”

            Kodlak shifted, leaning heavily on his cane. For a brief moment Lysanor wondered why no one had brought him a seat—surely it couldn’t have been too difficult to carry a stool down to the Underforge. “If that’s all, we can move on to the purpose of the meeting. We’ve been putting this off too long, I’m afraid.” He turned to Lysanor with a faint smile. “Lysanor’s been sleeping with the whelps for quite a while now.”

            A quiet chuckle rippled through the room. Still smiling, Kodlak limped to her. He pulled a heavy bronze key from his satchel and pressed it into her palm. The metal was cold clenched in her fingers. “You’ve more than earned your own quarters.” She managed to smile back at him, but words of gratitude stuck in her throat, like flies in a spiderweb. “Skjor’s spirit will be with you.”

            She bowed her head and mumbled a _thank you_ that was lost somewhere in the cold, stale air. Aela leaned over and nudged her in the side as Kodlak turned away from her. “Congratulations,” she said drily, a quirk to her brow. Her tone was familiar, teasing, but her eyes were still hard.

            Among the quiet mutters and the sound of the wind whistling through cracks in the stone, Vilkas’s voice rang out, surprisingly loud. “Harbinger, if I may, there was something I wanted to discuss.”

            Kodlak looked only mildly startled by Vilkas’s outburst. “Alright. What is it?”

            “Has there been any progress on the cure?”

            Aela’s head snapped up. Vilkas coolly met her glare before turning his attention to Kodlak.

            “I’m still searching, lad,” Kodlak said. “But I can’t tell you how long it will be. I’m to travel to speak to an old friend about it tomorrow morning. Perhaps something will come of that journey.”

            The twins exchanged a glance. “Where are you traveling to?”

            “Markarth.”

            “Are you mad?” Vilkas burst out. Kodlak’s eyebrows rose, and Vilkas hastily composed himself. “My apologies, master. But… you can’t think it’s wise to make a journey like that alone. Perhaps one of us should accompany you.”

            “I can make the journey on my own. I’m not an invalid quite yet, Vilkas,” Kodlak snapped. Lysanor felt suddenly nervous. She had never heard Kodlak raise his voice before. The others seemed to share her thoughts, for they all fell silent.

            “Apologies,” Vilkas muttered again. “It’s just… we’ve already lost Skjor. We would be crippled if we lost you, too.”

            “Don’t be so sure. You four could manage." After a moment Kodlak's expression, and his voice, gentled. “You worry too much. I will be cautious. I’m not eager to die just yet.”

            “Of course. I apologize.” Vilkas slipped back into the shadows beside his brother, his eyes down. Kodlak watched him with a sort of affectionate annoyance.

            “Actually, I agree with Vilkas.” That was the first time Lysanor had heard those words come out of Aela’s mouth. She straightened up, taking a step towards Kodlak. “Why do you need to go on this trip just now, Harbinger? Skyrim is in chaos. Dragons still rule the skies and those Stormcloaks aren’t going to be at peace with the Empire for long. None of us travels alone anymore.” She was incised now, her hair fiery in the biting orange light. “And what use do we have for a cure, either way? This isn’t some disease that we need to rid ourselves of. This is a _boon_. It would be like tossing our finest blades into the sea because we’re afraid we might cut ourselves.”

            “A boon?” Vilkas scoffed. “That’s what you call it? We’ve been stripped of every last shred of honor and dignity we had left. You call that a boon?”

            “What nonsense. Don’t lecture me about what you don’t understand, boy.”

            “That’s enough. Back off,” Farkas growled.

            “You stay out of this, ice-brain.”

            “Aela, shut up.” Aela whipped around to stare at Lysanor, her eyes narrowed with something between fury and betrayal.

            “Enough!” Kodlak roared.

            The room went silent.

            “Enough. You are all bound by the blood whether you like it or not. Do not let it tear you apart.” He turned to Aela. “Aela. Each of us controls his own fate. No one will force you to rid yourself of the blood if that’s not what you want. And Vilkas,” Kodlak continued, not waiting for a response, “You need to learn to hold your tongue. Your anger will only hurt you—you know that.”

            “I’m sorry, Aela,” Vilkas said, injured. Clearly, it wasn’t the first time he had been chastised like this. Kodlak drew a heavy sigh and straightened up.

            “Sometimes you pups are too much for me,” he muttered to himself. “If there’s nothing else to discuss, you all ought to get some rest. Everything will be clearer in the morning.” Farkas walked over to him, reaching for his arm again, but Kodlak held up a hand. “I’ll be alright, son. Thank you.”

            “If you’re sure,” Farkas murmured. He pushed the door open for Kodlak nonetheless, and watched as the Harbinger limped off. The others followed, Aela pointedly ignoring Lysanor as she left. Lysanor wasn’t too concerned. Aela had always been quick to anger and quick to forgive; she would be back to normal by morning. As she followed the cobblestone path back into Jorrvaskr, she heard Farkas call out, “Lysa. Wait.”

            She turned, her heart jumping into her throat. Farkas let the stone door slide shut and jogged up to her. “Hi,” he said, breathless.

            “Hi.” She bit her lip and dared a glance behind her. The others had already disappeared into the mead hall—it was just the two of them. “How are you?”

            “Good.” Gods, she hated this. It was as though they were meeting for the first time. No—it hadn’t been so painfully awkward then, had it?

            Farkas cleared his throat, tipping his chin up so that he could look down at her with casual indifference. “I’m going to be alone tonight,” he said. “If you don’t have anywhere to be… you’re welcome in my quarters.”

            For a moment, her breath seemed lost with the wind that rushed through her hair. She opened her mouth to stammer some semblance of a response, but he was already backing away. “Just something to think about,” he said simply. The key still clenched in her fist grew colder with every step he took back into the hall. Alone in the darkness before Jorrvaskr, her feet led her back and forth in an aimless sort of dance, her boots _click-clack_ ing in a firm, steady rhythm. She bit down on the knuckle of her forefinger, hard, in the hopes that it would ground her. All she could taste was the metal of her tarnished gold ring.

            When her feet began to ache she wandered inside, slipping through the shadows into the living quarters. It was quiet, still. She must have been out there longer than she’d thought. Her heartbeat quickened the closer she got to the end of the hall. She stood, hesitantly, in the centre of the corridor, glancing either way. To one side were Aela’s and Skjor’s rooms—no, _her_ room. To the other were the twins. It was as though she was on the brink of something, standing on a ledge and peering down. She took a deep breath, turned and pushed open the first door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading. let me know what you liked, or hated, or whatever!


	8. Purpura

_It was as though Lysanor was on the brink of something, standing on a ledge and peering down. She took a deep breath, turned and pushed open the first door._

            Farkas’s head snapped up and he slowly straightened from where he had been hunched over his desk. “You came,” he said, with a funny, relieved sort of half-laugh. Lysanor nodded dumbly. Before she could say anything, he had crossed the room and his hands were cupping her face and his mouth was hot against hers. The key tumbled from her fingers and landed with a clatter somewhere on his floor. It didn’t matter, though, not with the roughness of his palm against the back of her neck and his tongue sweeping over her lip. She drew back, suddenly desperate to hear the sound of his voice.

             “I thought…” she whispered, her fingers caught in his hair and her breasts crushed to his chest. She sighed as he pressed a line of soft, dry kisses along her jaw. “Oh, I thought…”

            His lips finally found hers, and her words were sealed in her mouth. “You thought what?”

            “I—I’m trying to tell you!” she hissed, sounding more petulant than she meant to. He smiled and lowered his head to run his nose along her neck, inhaling deeply. Her jaw fell slack. “I thought… you would be upset with me,” she whispered.

            He paused. His head drew back just enough that he could look down at her, his eyes narrow and questioning. “Upset?” he echoed. “Why?”

            “I don’t know,” she stumbled, wishing he would just kiss her again. “You…you were very quiet this morning.” When she excused herself from his bed that morning, saying that Ria would be awake soon, he hadn’t breathed a word. He just watched her leave.

            “I wasn’t upset,” Farkas said finally. “I wasn’t upset at all. Just didn’t know what to say.”

            She couldn’t help the relief that bubbled into her chest. She grinned up at him and rose to her toes to press her lips to his, but the gentle pressure of his hands on her shoulders kept her steady.

            “Last night,” he said, his voice suddenly sober and quiet. “Why did you—why—why _did_ you come to me?”

            Lysanor watched his face, hesitant. What did he want to hear? His expression, though, was carefully blank. There was nothing to read. She raised her hands to his face and traced his cheekbones with her thumbs. “Because…you’re sweet, and kind, and I trust you.” After a moment’s thought, she added softly, “And I wanted you.” As he mulled this over, she asked, “Why did you say yes?”

            A smile graced his lips again, a faint, secret smile that softened the harsh angles of his cheeks and his eyes. “How could I have said no?”

            This time, when she leaned up to kiss his smiling mouth, he didn’t stop her. She leaned against his solid chest, walking him backwards to his bed. He tore his mouth from hers. “Wait, wait. The door.”

            She glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, she’d left the door wide open in her haste, and the hallway peered into the room. She threw it closed and locked it, jiggling the doorknob for good measure, then fell back into Farkas’s arms. In however many years they’d known each other, she’d never touched his beard. There had never been any reason to. Now every time she pulled back, she wanted to feel the roughness against her lips again.

            With a firm push on his chest he fell heavily on the bed. Seconds later she was straddling his hips and grinding down against his length through the fabric of her trousers. Farkas groaned. The sound, throaty and pleasured, seemed to rumble through her.

            “Lysa,” he sighed, and propped himself up on his elbows to give her a slow, languid kiss. She pushed him back onto the pillow and set to work unlacing his breeches. He sat up despite her attempts to keep him pinned down and firmly grasped her wrist, laughing. “What are you doing?”

            “What does it look like I’m doing?” she huffed, torn between frustration and embarrassment. She wasn’t sure why she was embarrassed—after all, his breeches were standing between her and the part of him she was currently most interested in—but she was.

            He smiled at her. Somehow, the warm, affectionate way his eyes crinkled embarrassed her even more. “Slow down. We have all night,” he said, pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Unless you have somewhere to be.”

            She was suddenly aware of how tightly her fists were clenched, of the tension that hunched her shoulders. With every breath that fanned over the back of her hand, she could feel painful energy melting from her muscles like spring snow. “No,” she whispered. “There’s nowhere I need to be.”

            “Good.” He twisted them over so she was splayed on her back with him settled between her legs—quite a feat, since the bed was clearly not designed for two people. His forearms were braced on either side of her head. . She was happy.

             He brushed his lips against hers once, gently, then firm and open-mouthed. Her tunic came off at some point, but his kisses were so warm and tasted so sweet and sleepy that she didn’t even notice it was gone. Though she searched for his lips with her own he had already moved on, peppering kisses down her neck and chest and nuzzling her breasts. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured. She laughed, half because of his words and half because his beard tickled. 

            “You don’t have to say things like that. I’m already in your bed, aren’t I?”

            He glanced up at her, his brows high and a soft smile on his lips, but said nothing. Once his teeth found the peak of her breast, she wasn’t all that interested in talking, anyway. He drew away from her breasts far too quickly, hurrying to muffle her dreamy moans with his mouth. Instead, he took his time kissing her, nipping at her lips and sucking on her tongue. It felt good, but there were other parts of her that were more deserving of his attention.

            “Farkas, I know you want me to slow down,” she whispered as he kissed her throat. “But I’m getting bored.”

            His quiet laugh, muffled by her neck, shook both of their bodies. “You don’t always have to be so honest. Sometimes it’s okay to lie.”

            “Well, I’m just saying…”

            “Alright, alright. Sorry I wanted to kiss you,” he teased. “Didn’t know that was against the rules.”

            “I didn’t _say_ —oh.” His big, rough hand found its way between her legs and stroked her slick flesh. Whether it was the first time they did this or the thousandth, she was sure it would never stop surprising her how soft his touch was. She had seen him kill men with his bare hands. But he touched her like she was made of glass, like she would disappear in a puff of a smoke if he pressed into her too hard. He watched her face, careful, and rubbed gentle circles over the bundle of nerves at her sex. She whined and arched into his hand. It was too good—blissful and agonizing at the same time. “Stop, stop,” she gasped. “Just—fuck me.”

            Clearly, he had the same idea in mind; he was on his knees, and his free hand was already at work on his own breeches. He took his hand from her to give his manhood a few quick strokes, then settled between her thighs and teasingly rubbed the head against her sex.

            “ _Farkas!_ ”

            “Sorry.” Without any more hesitation, he positioned himself and drove in with one quick, smooth thrust. Lysanor groaned, twisting the furs between her fingers and digging her head into the pillow. Farkas was a big man, tall and broad and hugely muscular. Almost too big for her, in fact. She wrapped her legs around his waist to ease the sting. He drew back in a painfully slow stroke that made her whimper and clutch at his shoulders, then sank back in. She could feel every wet tug of his skin against hers, every soft sound that rumbled through his chest. She dug her nails into his back, dragged him as close to her as he could be.

            “Farkas, _harder_.”

            His eyes flitted up to hers, hesitant and pale like the day after a snowfall, and he obeyed. _Ah_. That was better. A blur of sensation, nothing clear, nothing its own—she couldn’t distinguish her flesh, her pleasure, from his. There was a knocking from somewhere in the room, rhythmic and almost musical. It took her a moment to realize that it was the sound of his headboard banging against the wall with the force of his thrusts. She tightened her legs around his waist, digging her heels into his buttocks, and he moaned her name into her ear. Suddenly frenzied, he turned her head to his and captured her lips with a ferocity he’d never directed toward her before.

            “Don’t go,” he whispered against her mouth. The thick muscles in his back were surprisingly tense, twitching against her fingers. “Lysa, don’t—”

            “I won’t.” She didn’t even know what she was promising, but she felt so warm and safe and good trapped beneath his body that just then, she would have promised him anything. “I won’t. Farkas…”

            The sound of his name torn from her lips did something to him. He groaned into her ear, reverently, and touched her _there_ again, where it felt so good she didn’t know if she wanted to force his hand away or push into it. Her eyes squeezed shut. He was all around her, his voice in her ears and his scent in her nostrils and the taste of him lost in her throat. He was everywhere. She arched up into his body, clapping her hand over her mouth to muffle her cry of release.

            He must have finished soon after her, because she couldn’t feel the knocking of the headboard rattle in her bones anymore. His elbows gave out and his body collapsed into hers, his face buried against her neck. It was too hot with him pressed into every inch of her like that, too hard to breathe with his full weight resting on her, but she liked the way she could feel the rapid flutter of his heartbeat against her chest. She was too sleepy to care, anyway. The overwhelming warmth just made her sleepier. She wound her fingers in his hair, marveling over how soft it was and wondering if he would let her braid it.

            When his breathing slowed and she could just barely hear the pulsing of the blood in his veins, he lifted his head and looked her in the eye. They were both quiet for a moment. Then he leaned down and kissed her again, sweetly. She smiled into his mouth.

            “You’re crushing me.”

            He grinned. “Sorry.” With some clever maneuvering, he adjusted them so she was the one crushing him instead, her legs curled around his and her head balanced on his chest. She folded her arms in front of her and rested her chin on them. It was a good position to peck at his mouth in, so she did.

            “Are you sleepy?” she whispered. It wasn’t a very good question; his eyes were already drifting closed. He grunted softly in response, tightening his grip on her waist. She kissed him again and laid her head down. “Goodnight.”

            “Not going to run off this time?”

            She glanced up. His eyes were still closed, and his voice was still sleepy, almost sarcastic. But Farkas wasn’t sarcastic. She touched his cheek and shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her. “No. I’m comfortable here.”

            He didn’t respond, but began to lightly stroke her bare back, and she laid her cheek back on his chest. She had been sleepy just a moment ago. Now her eyes were wide open. She touched the coarse, dark hair on his chest, her mind—and her eyes—wandering. The oil lamps on his desk were still burning. Neither of them had the energy to get up and put them out, so she supposed they would stay that way. For just a moment, the flames trembled and the light caught on something on the floor. She lifted her head to look. It was the key, she realized, that she had dropped. The key to her new room, the room that she would have to move her belongings to as soon as the sun rose.

            Lysanor sighed and shook her head to clear her thoughts. There were other, sweeter things to think about. Like him. She wasn’t sure if he was quite asleep yet, but his eyes were still closed and his breathing relaxed. If he wasn’t asleep, he would be soon. Careful not to shift about too much, she propped herself onto her forearms and rested her fingertips against his cheek. She brushed her fingers over the rough, rippled scar that stretched over his skin and disappeared under his short beard. His lips were dark, soft, still a little swollen from kissing. She pressed a kiss there, then to the tip of his strong nose, then leaned back to look at him again. It was a good face, she thought. Not quite handsome, but warm and strong and immeasurably kind. He reminded her of something that made her heartbeat slow. She smiled to herself. Her cheek found a home in the hollow of his shoulder and her eyes fluttered closed.

 

            She was drowning.

            She could feel it in the burn of her lungs, the watering of her eyes. She was drowning in cold, rainy winter air, the water searing trails down her cheeks and arms. It was sweet—almost. Like flower petals. Flower petals that filled her lungs and dripped from her swollen, bloodied lips.

            It was black. The water streamed from her fingertips in rivulets blacker than night, redder than dragonfire. It coiled around her ankles, her knees, holding her in place. Her wrists, though, were tied, so tightly she could feel the burn of sinew against her skin. She followed the line of rope to another pair of wrists, bound as hers, pale and rubbed raw. There was a delicate chain of gold around one of those wrists, dull red gemstones embedded in the metal. Lysanor knew that bracelet. They had buried her with that bracelet. She sank to her knees, but murky water filled her mouth before she could scream.  

            “Lysa?”

            Her voice was weak and hoarse and swallowed by the rain, but it still echoed in Lysanor’s mind, deafening. She looked just the way she had been frozen in Lysanor’s mind for the past ten summers—curled in her bed, her lips cracked, blood and saliva smeared over her cheek. She brought her hands to her soft, round face to wipe away the rain. The motion dragged Lysanor forward, but her feet were still rooted to the ground. _She_ wasn’t still, though. The water was at her hips now, darkening the fabric of her skirt, swaying her lithe form. She was moving. Lysanor stretched toward her until every muscle in her arms trembled, burned. It wasn’t enough. The rope unwound between them, tiny damp sinews curling in the water, and snapped.

 

            Lysanor jerked awake with a start, her breath burning her throat. For a moment, with the dampness of her tears and her sweat, she was convinced she was still locked in the storm of her dream, that she was still bound to her dead sister. Under the heavy furs that pinned her to the bed, she reached out, though she didn’t know whose body she was reaching for. She was alone. As she turned, she caught the scent of Farkas’s skin on the pillow, heavy and warm and masculine. The night before trickled back to her. Where was he? He’d been good enough to put out the lamps and cover her with his furs before he left, but he was still gone. She shifted and buried her head in his pillow, trying to slow her breathing.

            The stone floor was cold on her bare feet, the sort of cold that she could feel chill her bones, and gooseflesh rose along her arms and legs. She shuddered, rubbed her arms. Where were her clothes? Her shoes were easy to find, kicked off by his desk, but the rest of her clothing seemed to have disappeared. Muttering about the indignity of the situation, she knelt, naked but for a pair of flimsy leather boots, and peered under his bed for her trousers.

            Just a few moments after she stepped into the corridor, she heard the sound of hurried footsteps coming down the hall. It was Vilkas. She turned toward him, slowly shifting away from Farkas’s quarters.

            “Oh, Lysanor. Good. I was hoping I’d find someone.” He was breathless, for once struggling to compose himself. “Do you have a few minutes to spare?”

            “Aye. What do you need?”

            “We have new blood, upstairs in the yard.” Lysanor raised her brows. It had been a while since she’d heard those words. She was Jorrvaskr’s newest recruit herself, and she’d joined more than two years ago. The occasional person drifted in hoping for easy coin or a chance at fame, of course, but most weren’t even able to hold up their own swords. “Would you mind testing out her arm for me? Just see if she seems like she can hold her own.”

            “Er, alright. Don’t you usually do that?” As far as she knew, Kodlak trusted Vilkas to test the mettle of the new recruits. He had a good eye for that sort of thing. Lysanor wasn’t sure if it was wise to entrust her with this new duty—she could kill things, but that was about where her skill ended.

            “I do, but I’ve got somewhere to be. I was just about to leave when she arrived.”

            Lysanor looked him over. He certainly did look ready to head off on a long journey—he was fully armored, cloak swept over his broad shoulders and satchels strapped to his waist. “Where are you going?”

            Vilkas shifted, cleared his throat. “Markarth.”

            “So you’re going with Kodlak after all, then?”

            “No. Not quite. He left earlier this morning.” He shifted his weight from leg to leg again. It was a little funny that he and his brother had the same nervous tics. “I have other business there. And if I happen to run into him while I’m there…well, there’s no reason not to accompany him back.”

            “I see,” she said, suppressing a smile. “I’ll take care of the new blood, then. Talos be with you.”

            With a murmured thanks, Vilkas set off in an undignified half-run that betrayed his desire to catch up to Kodlak but still look aloof and nonchalant. She laughed quietly to herself on her way up to the training yard. Vilkas was a pain—Gods knew why Ria was always seeking him out—but at least he had good judgment. Kodlak walked with a limp and his eyesight had long since started to dim. He couldn’t have made the journey on his own. 

            It was cold out in the yard—the sun wasn’t quite out yet, and the clouds obscured the off-white light. Her breath curled in dark puffs of smoke from her lips as she took a steel sword from the weapons rack. The first time she looked around the yard, she almost missed the dark, frail figure standing by the dummies like a shadow. She wandered over to the woman, wondering about the last time they’d seen a Dunmer other than Athis at Jorrvaskr.

            “New blood?”

            Her head snapped up and she seemed to struggle with her words for a moment, her tongue darting out to run over already-chapped lips. Then her expression relaxed and she nodded. “Yes. That’s me.”

            “Got a weapon?”

            She held up a pair of flimsy-looking shortswords. Lysanor flexed her arms and tightened her grip on her own sword. “Let’s test your arm. Go ahead and take a few swings at me.” Before she could even reassure the new blood that she didn’t need to worry about hurting her, the way Vilkas always told newcomers, her swords were flashing at Lysanor’s unarmored chest. She cursed and threw her sword arm up. _Damned quick elves_. The woman stumbled but recovered barely a moment later, swiping first at Lysanor’s face, then at her throat.

            “Alright, alright! I didn’t say slit my throat,” she grumbled, taking a step back. The newcomer wiped her forehead and let her swords fall to her sides. “You move that fast, you’ll end up killing yourself. Or me.”

            “Isn’t that the point?”

            Lysanor sheathed her sword and tucked it into her belt. “Not during training, it isn’t.” The Companions had banished warriors before for becoming too savage in the training yard—or outside it.  

            “Sorry. Just trying to impress you.” Lysanor glanced at her. Now that she really looked at the woman, she could see why Vilkas had seemed so unconcerned with her; she didn’t look like much at all. Her hair was cropped very short, in a style that made her look strangely boyish. She was a full head shorter than Lysanor and seemed to be even slimmer than Ria, with bony collarbones and wrists that jutted from her dark skin. She certainly didn’t look like a warrior, especially with that abashed, apologetic look on her face.

            “What’s your name, girl?”

            “Satheri.”

            “Alright, Satheri. Your footing’s unsteady. One fumble when you’re out on a job, and you’re dead.” If the criticism irritated her, she didn’t show it. She nodded, silent, and licked her lips again. “But you move quick and you use your weapon well. If you’re willing to learn, and train, we have room for you here.”

            Relief spread over the Dunmer’s face. “Thank you,” she said eagerly. “I’ll do well. I promise.” Her smile grew faint. “When do we start training?”

            “I’m not the one training you,” she said automatically. It wasn’t really her decision to make, but Farkas always trained the new blood. He was the only one patient enough. “Come on, put your swords away. I’ll show you to the whelps’ quarters.”

            The living quarters were empty but for Njada, huddled over an ugly gash on her calf. Lysanor waited for her to finish her stitch before speaking.

            “New blood, Njada.” She glanced up, brows aloft and hands still blood-smeared.

            “Oh, really?”

            “Really.” To the Dunmer, who was standing quiet as a shadow behind her, she said, “You can pick a bed and put your things down. Get some rest for now.” She noticed for the first time that the woman didn’t seem to have any belongings with her, save for her clothes and the swords at her waist. She and Njada both watched as she walked to the bed on the far end of the room.

            “Been a while since we’ve had new blood around here,” Njada muttered, wiping the blood from her leg with a grimy rag. “The old man must be happy.”

            “He will be.”

            Njada glanced up. “Kodlak hasn’t taken a look at her yet? Since when do you have the authority to accept newcomers?”

            “Kodlak’s on his way to Markarth. She’s here now, and I’m not going to have her wait until he gets back.” Njada scoffed softly but didn’t respond, rolling her trouser leg back down. “Have you seen Farkas today?”

            “Skyforge.”

            Talos only knew what business Farkas had on the Skyforge so early in the morning. “Get some rest, girl, and don’t go anywhere. I’ll send your trainer down when I find him.” The Dunmer, who was huddled on her bed, nodded, and as Lysanor left the room she found herself wondering about the girl’s downcast eyes and chapped lips.

            It became quickly apparent what Farkas’s business on the Skyforge had been. Ria was anxiously discussing her sword with Eorlund, Farkas hovering close by. She must have needed the moral support. Lysanor stood on the steps and watched him for a moment. He wasn’t armored, still wearing the clothes he had been in the night before. Without his war paint blackening his eyes and settling into the lines in his face he looked so much younger. Lysanor climbed the last few steps, and as her boots clicked against the stone, his head turned. For a moment her stomach swooped, the way it had that last morning when it seemed like they would never be able to look each other in the eye again. Then he caught her eye and smiled, and the tension melted away.

            She wandered over to him, smiling despite herself. Ria didn’t even notice her approaching, but Farkas moved back a few steps to stand beside her. Lysanor lifted her chin toward Ria and Eorlund. “What’s going on?”

            “Dunno.” His voice seemed warmer, gruffer in the wet morning light. She stepped closer to listen. “There’s something wrong with her sword that she needs fixed before Vilkas notices. Came pounding on my door this morning.” He lowered his voice, eyes still focused on the forge. “I’m surprised you slept through it.”

            “You tired me out.”  

            Farkas glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Though he was clearly trying to keep a straight face, she could see his lips twitch upwards. Lysanor held his gaze for a moment, then Ria’s voice rang out—“ What am I going to do? Vilkas is going to think I’m so _stupid…_ ”—and snapped her out of it. She cleared her throat.

            “Anyway. I just came up here to tell you we’ve got new blood. She’s waiting in the whelps’ quarters for her trainer.” At his raised brow, she added, “That’s you. Make sure you speak to her today.”

            “I will.”

            Ria’s voice was growing steadily more panicked, despite Eorlund’s calm, soothing tone. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” As Lysanor was turning to leave, though, he suddenly pulled her back by the wrist. Even as he was taking her hand and tugging her into his body, his expression remained nonchalant.

            “Think you’ve got some time to spare tonight?”

            The clouds crept over the sun, blocking out what little light had been shining over them. Lysanor could feel the air begin to cool before the light died. She smiled. “Of course.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a while. sometimes life just gets to you. but i'm back and it's here! thank you to everyone who's stuck around. hope you like it.


	9. Carnelian

            It seemed that the entirety of winter slipped by in the blink of an eye, and before they knew it they were stuck in that ugly transition between cold and spring sunlight. One day it would be just warm enough to melt the snow by their door into slush, and the next, it would be painfully, bitingly cold. It was Lysanor’s least favorite time of the year. She found herself wandering to Farkas’s quarters whenever her mind drifted, eager for the comfort of his touch and his bed. Even if she couldn’t will herself to sleep after their couplings, the pleasant hollowness let the rest of the day slip by.

            One of those sticky evenings she couldn’t quite stop her mind from racing, even after her heart had slowed. She rose from Farkas’s bed as he reached for her hand to tug her back.

            “Where are you going?” His voice was husky, content, and his hand ghosted lazily over her behind as she rose from the bed.

            She swatted him away. “None of your business,” she responded haughtily. As soon as the words left her mouth, though, she began to wonder if she’d hurt his feelings. To soothe the sting, she explained, “I’m bored.”

            When she glanced back, he certainly didn’t look injured. His arms were tucked behind his head and he was wearing a smug grin that didn’t suit him. “I can think of something we can do.”

            “Farkas,” she whined. Her tone made him laugh. “I’m _tired_. No more.”

            “Fine.” His voice gentled. She liked the Farkas that took her whenever she wanted him to, no questions asked, but she liked the Farkas that came afterward more—the one that smiled at her and told her stories and let her braid his hair. “What do you want to do, then?”

            “I don’t know. Don’t you ever get bored in here?”

            “Not really. Got a lot of work to do.” She realized she was wearing nothing more than a loose bandage around her thigh and could suddenly feel his eyes roaming over her. He had seen her in far more compromising positions, of course, but quiet embarrassment settled in her stomach at the way he was leering. She took the tunic he’d draped over his chair and slipped it over her head. It smelled like blood and sweat and mead—like him. “When I get bored I just go find my brother.”

            “I’m not in the mood for talking to your brother, Farkas,” Lysanor muttered drily. She was smoothing her fingers over the cool wood of his desk when a small, worn book caught her eye. The burgundy cover was familiar, somehow. She flicked to the first page and laughed when she read the title. “ _Kolb and the Dragon_?” This book, she knew. It was a simple children’s tale where the reader chose Kolb’s actions—most of which led to his death. She remembered skimming through it once, thinking a children’s book would be easiest to read.

            Farkas sat up, his interest piqued. “Aye. Used to be me and my brother’s favorite book. We read it so many times that we knew all the endings by heart. Had to pretend we didn’t know so we could still play the game.” He grinned at her, holding out his hand. “Come here. Let’s read it.”

            “That’s alright,” Lysanor said, dropping the book. Farkas’s brows rose. “I don’t really like books.”

            “Why not?” Farkas’s voice still sounded amused, but he was starting to look puzzled. “You like my stories just fine.”

            “Yes. Of course. It’s just…” She looked over at him, hoping that maybe he was losing interest in the conversation. His gaze was still steadily focused on her. She cleared her throat. “I—I can’t read.”

            “Yes, you can,” Farkas said slowly, as if not entirely sure of it himself. “You sort the letters. From the clients.”

            She sighed and sank into his chair. “Well, I can read a little. I had to learn when I came to Whiterun. Hulda needed help with her bookkeeping. But I never learned properly. No one ever really taught me.” It felt as though one too many words had slipped past her lips. She fell silent, staring at her hands. Farkas was quiet too.

            “That’s okay,” he said finally. “Me and Vilkas couldn’t read for a long time, too. My pa had to teach us. Know how long it took me to learn?” She shook her head. “Four years. Always had Vilkas to read things to me, so I never really wanted to know how to do it myself.” He smiled. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about it.”

            “I’m not embarrassed,” she muttered. “I just wish someone had taught me so I didn’t have to teach myself all wrong.”

            “Bring that book over here.”

            “What?”

            Farkas leaned back against the headboard, opening his bulky arms to her. “Bring it over here. I’ll teach you.”

            “Farkas…”

            He watched her expectantly, brows aloft. She looked down at _Kolb and the Dragon_. _An adventure for Nord boys,_ said the small, square text below the title. It was a children’s book. She had read it before. She could do it again.

            She clenched the book in her hand and walked back over to him, crawling onto the bed. She made to sit next to him but he drew her up against him so her back was pressed against his strong chest, her hips nestled in his lap. He twined his long, bare legs with hers and kissed the crown of her head. “Start from the beginning.”

            “Where else would I start?” she muttered, but her voice was shaking. She opened the book to the first page and cleared her throat. For a moment she saw nothing but scratches of ink, arranged in empty patterns over the crisp paper. Then Farkas’s arms wrapped around her waist and he leaned forward to press a warm, scratchy kiss to her cheek, and the shapes twisted into words. “ _Kolb and the Dragon_ ,” she read aloud, her voice more confident than she felt. “ _An adventure for Nord boys._ Just like you, Farkas.”

            His answering chuckle rumbled through her chest, soothing her. “Kolb was a brave Nord warrior,” she continued. “One day his chief asked Kolb to slay an evil dragon that…that…” She paused. T…thr…throw? Thread?

            “Threatened,” Farkas murmured into her ear.

            “Threatened,” she echoed shakily. “Threatened…their village.” She let the cover of the book fall back down over the page. “See? I told you I can’t do this.”

            “Yes, you can. You’re doing well.” Lysanor shook her head, eyes still down. “Lysa,” he said, softly. “It’s just me.”

            “I know. I just…”

            “Go on,” he urged. He kissed her forehead before pulling her back to settle against his chest again. “We gotta find out what happens to Kolb.”

            “I thought you said you knew all the endings by heart.”

            “Please. I don’t know anything.”

            She turned enough to look at him from the corner of her eye. “I don’t like when you say things like that. You know plenty.”

            "Alright, Lysa. I’m very sorry. Now come on, hurry up.” His palms splayed over her stomach and his chin came to rest on her shoulder. “The dragon threatened their village?”

            “The dragon threatened their village,” she agreed, appeased for the moment. They followed Kolb as the chief instructed him to head through the mountain pass, then as he stood before the pass, wondering which route to take. Lysanor was silent, waiting for Farkas’s instruction.

            “Well? Pick something.”

            Ah, yes. He didn’t know anything. “Okay. Let’s go through…the windy cave.”

            “Not that one,” he whispered into her ear, almost guiltily. She couldn’t help twisting around in his lap to peck at his smiling mouth, laughing into the kiss.

            “Fine! The cold cave, then.”

            “That’s better.”

            To her relief, Farkas was far more interested in the story than in her reading. He hardly seemed to notice when she fumbled or mispronounced words, and if he did, he said nothing. That, however, was the last of his advice. Kolb managed to die thrice in quick succession before Lysanor threw the book across the room. She flounced off Farkas’s bed and dressed with a dramatic flourish, muttering about accursed children’s books and dragon slayers. Despite her complaints, she left with a lightness in her heart and the sound of his laughter echoing in her ears.

 

* * *

 

 

            Even the sweetness of Farkas’s company couldn’t quite cut through the thick fog of the season. The weather settled heavily into Lysanor’s bones and weighed her down with a sickness that seemed to get to everyone. It was, of course, one of _those_ ugly, almost-warm, almost-sunny mornings that Ria ducked into Lysanor’s room to inform her that she needed to come up to the training yard. According to her, Satheri was waiting in the yard and needed a trainer.

            Lysanor rubbed her temples, sitting on the edge of Skjor’s old bed. Her head was throbbing and there was an uncomfortable, almost painful itch in her spine. “Where’s Farkas?”

            “I think he isn’t feeling well. He said he’s not coming up today.”

            The weather really _was_ awful if it could keep Farkas from training. “Can’t you get someone else? Why can’t _you_ train her?”

            “Me?” Ria laughed nervously. “I wish. Do you know how much time I wasted waiting for my sword to get fixed? I’ll be training for the rest of my life to make up for it.”

            “Vilkas?"

            “I haven’t seen him since yesterday. And I don’t want to look for him,” she added quickly, before Lysanor could chime in. “He was in an awful mood.”

            “Alright. Tell Satheri I’ll be up in a minute.” Ria smiled and disappeared, leaving her alone with her headache and the quiet. Though she was eager to blame the weather for all her ails, she had drifted in and out of a restless sleep throughout the night, and it only made her feel sicker. It was so hard to fall asleep in Skjor’s room. Farkas hadn’t seemed too interested in her company the night before. It wasn’t like him to be so standoffish. Perhaps she’d drop by his room later.

            As she walked out to the yard she found, to her surprise, that Kodlak was sitting at the table. She bade him a hesitant good morning; it was strange to see him upstairs. The long, cold trip to Markarth the month before had only served to aggravate his already injured leg, and he had returned leaning heavily on a scowling Vilkas’s shoulder. Apparently, Kodlak refused to tell anyone what he found on his trip, despite Vilkas’s pestering. Vilkas had been sulking for days.

            “Good morning. You’re awake early today.”

            “Aye. New blood needs a trainer.” Lysanor hadn’t been too eager to tell Kodlak that she’d accepted a newcomer in his absence, but he’d been surprisingly indifferent. All he’d said before disappearing into his quarters was that he trusted her judgment. “Farkas is feeling under the weather.”

            “I’m not surprised,” Kodlak remarked. “Take care today, lass. The air is sickly.”

            The words were still ringing, familiar and puzzling, in her ears when Lysanor stepped outside. Satheri was hovering in her uneasy sort of way by the tables in the yard. Training hardened new recruits, stole away nervousness and fear, but it seemed that the only thing different about Satheri was that she didn’t quite look like a starved dog anymore. Her face, her eyes, were the same, if a bit less gaunt. She rubbed her arms as if she was cold and, as Lysanor approached, glanced up.

            “Morning,” Lysanor greeted. Satheri nodded in response. “What are we doing today?”

            "Farkas and I have been practicing archery.” She lifted the wooden bow clenched in her hand. Lysanor felt her headache coming back with a vengeance. She was not an archer.

            She told Satheri as much. “You’d be better off training with Aela. She taught me to shoot, too.”

            “She’s not here today.”

            “No?”

            “No. She’s headed to Winterhold, I think. Business.”

            Of course Aela was gone just when she was needed. “Alright, come on, then.”

            Satheri needed no further instruction. She got into position, reached for her quiver, and set off putting holes in the targets. Lysanor stood to the side and offered the occasional comment, but her mind drifted. The few times that she managed to tear her thoughts from the ache in her back she found herself wondering where Aela had gone off without her. It wasn’t like her to leave without telling Lysanor where she was going—in her words, so that someone would know where to find her body.

            “Hey! Watch it, elf!”

            Lysanor started. Satheri lowered her bow and called out an apology to Torvar, who was glaring and clutching at his arm. She turned to Lysanor and shrugged.

            “He should watch where he’s going. I only nicked him, anyway.”

            “Stay away from the targets, Torvar,” Lysanor called.  He sent an impolite gesture their way. Satheri scoffed under her breath and wiped at her forehead. It was only when Lysanor glanced at the elf’s face, shiny with perspiration, that she realized she was sweating too. Her skin, however, was still cold. She wiped her clammy palms on her thighs. “How long does Farkas usually have you train?”

            “Until I’m tired.” Satheri lifted her gaze from her bow and raised her eyebrows. “You don’t have to stay out here with me if you’re tired. I can handle it.” Lysanor must have looked offended because Satheri quickly added, “It’s only shooting arrows, after all.”

            “No, I’ll stay. Keep going.”

            Despite Lysanor’s bravado, it felt like a blessing from the Gods when Satheri managed to nick Torvar a second time and training came to an abrupt halt. Lysanor grabbed the bow and pulled Satheri back into the hall before Torvar could “teach her a lesson” like he was threatening to.

            “Take the rest of the day off,” Lysanor announced, trying not to seem too relieved. “Maybe get out of Jorrvaskr for a little while if you don’t want to get in a fistfight.”

            “I really didn’t mean to hit him. He just got in the way.”

            “I know. Don’t worry.” She handed Satheri back her bow. “Just get some rest, alright?”

            As Satheri walked off Lysanor took a heavy breath, wiping the sweat from her lip and combing her hair out of her face. It was a little too warm inside Jorrvaskr, but it was better than the cold sun outside. She grabbed a sweetroll and a bottle of mead before heading back downstairs. Halfway to the living quarters she realized why Kodlak’s words had sounded so familiar. _The air is sickly_. Hadn’t Skjor told her that once when she was a whelp, barely a Companion for a few months? It was his response when she asked him why he looked so ill. She remembered he and Aela disappeared later that day, returning drenched with sticky, fresh blood. She could still taste the stench of dead blood in the back of her throat.

            Outside of Farkas’s door, Lysanor shifted the food into one hand and tried the handle. To her surprise, it was locked. Farkas didn’t lock his door, not unless she was inside with him. She knocked.

            "Not now,” he snarled. Even through the wood she could feel the anger in his voice. She hesitated.

            “It’s me.”

            There was a moment of silence, then a clatter and the _click_ of his door unlocking. It creaked open a few inches, enough for her to see half of his face. “What?”

            She held out the food in her hands. “Can I come in?”

            Farkas didn’t seem too happy about the proposition. “Make it quick,” he muttered, backing away from the door to let her in. He looked as though he hadn’t left his bed in days. His hair was mussed, torso bare, eyes bloodshot and heavy. Almost as soon as the door clicked shut behind her he collapsed into a chair.

            “I brought you something to eat.” Lysanor padded over to his desk and set the plate down. “Are you not feeling well? I heard there’s something going around.” She touched his neck with the back of her hand to see if he had a fever, but he jerked away from her touch as if she’d burned him. He finally lifted his head from his hands to rub at the back of his neck in a strange sort of tic.

            “I’m fine,” he said gruffly. “If you don’t need something, you should go.” He didn’t look fine. His eyes were red as though he hadn’t slept all night and she could see a muscle twitch in his jaw. As she leaned forward she noticed thick, raised pink lines over his chest and arms. It looked like he’d been trying to scratch his skin right off.

            “Doesn’t look like you’re fine. Should I fetch Tilma?”

            “No—no! I swear, I’m fine. I just—need to be alone.”

            “Farkas, what _is_ it?” 

            “Lysa.” His voice took a tone that she had never heard from him before, something low and tense with barely contained anger. “ _Leave_.”

            She took a hesitant step toward him. “You look sick. I don’t want to leave you like this. Just spit it out, what’s _wrong—_ ”

            Before she could finish her sentence there was a violent clatter and he was throwing himself up out of his chair and into her body. Suddenly his mouth was on hers and his hands were braced on the wall on either side of her head. With his body surrounding her she could feel the sickly, feverish heat radiating from his skin, and the scent of his blood was all wrong. He pulled back just enough to breathe, his nose still brushing hers. He was panting. She looked up at him through the shadow his body had cast over her.

            “Farkas?” she whispered. Her hands came up to touch his face, but he took both of her wrists in his hand and slammed them into the wall above her head.

            “Don’t talk.” He held her hands there and used the other hand to tear her tunic clean down the middle. She gasped but he just growled _don’t talk_ again and claimed her mouth.

            Farkas wrapped her long, fair hair around his hand and yanked until her head was back and her neck bare, vulnerable. Her breath came in short, fearful gasps. The blood seemed to pulse so close to the surface of her skin that she was sure she’d bleed out the second he touched her. She felt more naked with her throat exposed than she did with her tunic hanging in shreds.

            He lowered his head to the junction of her shoulder and neck, breathing hard. The smooth porcelain of his teeth ghosted her skin, then sank in with a sharp burst of pain.  

            “Farkas,” she gasped. He pulled on her hair just enough for pain to blossom along her scalp and tears to spring to her eyes.

            “Turn around.”

            “What?” He let go of her wrists and, with one sweep of his arm, threw the contents of his desk to the floor. Before she knew what was happening he’d flipped her over and bent her over his desk. One hand stayed wound firmly in her hair. As he pressed into her, he pulled her head back and kissed her hard. Her trousers ripped like her tunic and she could hear him pushing down his own. He kicked the backs of her feet to spread her legs and drove into her without a moment’s hesitation. Every ache in her body disappeared, replaced by a sweet pain where they were joined. The wood scraped against her breasts, and she was suddenly very aware of how he was taking her—bent over, face down, like a bitch in heat. He leaned over, the length of his body sticky against hers, and pressed his open mouth to the wound at her shoulder.

            Lysanor whimpered his name again, though it fell on deaf ears. From the sound of his voice and the smell of his skin, she could tell now that he wasn’t really there. She didn’t feel herself, either. She should have been ashamed at her position and the tatters of her clothing and the noises she was making, but instead she arched into him and clutched at the forearm she could reach.

            When he finished he lay over her, breathing hard against her throat and still holding her head back with her hair. The angle made her neck ache and it hurt to swallow. “Farkas,” she whispered again. This time he started, lifting his head. “You’re hurting me.”

            His hand fell from her head so quickly it was as though it had never been there, and the weight of him disappeared from her back. She lay face-down on the desk until her calves burned, then she slid to the ground. Farkas’s breathing, quick and panicked, was louder than the rush of blood in her ears. He was staring at her as though he didn’t recognize her.

            “Oh, gods.” All the anger was gone now. He collapsed into the chair, surrounded by the mess of papers and bottles that he’d thrown off the table, and bowed his head. Lysanor watched him dully from her spot on the ground.

            “What happened?”

            He glanced at her through the curtain of hair around his face, but his eyes quickly flitted away. “It’s just… just the time of the year,” he whispered, voice thick with shame. “It’s not usually so bad, but I haven’t turned for so long and you were just _there,_ and…” He shuddered and ran his hands over his face. “Gods, I didn’t want to do that to you. I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

            He was looking at her now, hands still covering the rest of his face. His eyes were pleading and gentle and sad. Farkas was usually so kind-hearted that it was easy to forget he’d spent the last two decades of his life being only half human. Now, it was all she could think about.

            “Did I—did I bite you?” Blood was trickling from her shoulder and curling into wet blossoms on her breast. She wiped it away, but only succeeded in reddening her palm. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Sometimes I just… need to taste blood.”

            “Because you haven’t turned?” she asked.

            “I guess. Never been this bad. It’s been… Gods, a year since I last turned. Since I last fed.”

            _Fed on what?_ “So why don’t you just go outside of Whiterun and—and do it? Hunt deer or something?”

            “No!” The sudden fierceness of his voice startled her. Regret bloomed in his eyes. “No,” he repeated, more softly. “My brother and Kodlak said we have to hold out until we find a cure. The more we give in to the blood before then, the harder it will be to be rid of it.”

            “And you want to be rid of it,” Lysanor murmured. It was barely a question.

            “Well,” he said after a long, pregnant pause. “Made me do this to you, didn’t it?” He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, eyes closed. “I feel like a monster.”

            Lysanor crawled over to him, settling by his chair and leaning against him. He jerked when her skin touched his but she ignored it and wrapped her arms around his leg. The pads of her fingers traced light, barely-there patterns on his calf. “It’s all right.”

            “It’s not.”

            She set her chin on his knee and looked up at him. “I would have stopped you if I had wanted to.” It was true. She would have. In her mind, though, she wondered if she _could_ have. She could feel the strength in every tensed muscle and tendon of his leg. If he had really wanted to hold her still she wondered how much she could have done to stop him.

            When he didn’t respond, she took the hand hanging limply at his side and brought it to her lips. He let her kiss his fingers before setting his palm over the top of her head, rubbing lightly at her scalp, soothing the ache.

            “Does it hurt?”

            “No.”

            They were both silent, breathing the thick air. Farkas sighed. After a moment, he added, “I don’t like sweet rolls.”

            Lysanor smiled. “It’s just as well.”

            Together, they picked up the parchment scattered across the room and set it on his desk. Lysanor dressed and, before she left, kissed his cheek.

            “Get some rest,” she whispered in his ear. “It’ll be better in the morning.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading.


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